


The Loved One

by owlbsurfinbird



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Complete, Friends to Lovers, Healing Power of Love, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character with Chronic Illness, Realistic Sad Happy Ending, Too Late for Lewis Summer Challenge 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 19:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4716950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlbsurfinbird/pseuds/owlbsurfinbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <span class="small">
    <em>Diagnosed with what? Robbie bit into his bottom lip, his mouth clamped tight because he wanted, oh, he wanted to scream at the three of them. He'd been going along with all of this, the painkillers, and the massage, and now they had a bloody mirror on the bed and James was re-training his brain.</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="small">
    <em>Size of his brain? Could take decades.</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="small">
    <em>He just wanted to know what James had. Just wanted an explanation. Maybe an hour or two researching on the internet. 'Course he could ask James, too, but he wasn't at all sure he'd learn anything helpful.</em>
  </span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story contains pain, humor, falling in love, family dynamics, guilt, chronic illness, hope, medical procedures, love, mindfulness. It's sweet and sad.
> 
> No one dies, everyone manages, but the ending may put a lump in your throat.
> 
> A huge thank you to Wendymr, for Brit-pick and beta-read and for encouraging me to dig deeper and to tag it properly. :-) Any errors that remain are mine.
> 
> Written for the Lewis Summer Challenge 2015, but missed the deadline, alas. Loves_Books and b37d45 asked for a hardcore H/C with life-changing consequences for James. (The actual prompt is in the endnotes of Chapter 6 along with references.)

Robbie pinched the bridge of his nose hard, hoping that creating pain there would dull the throbbing pain in the center of his brain. Hours spent at what looked like the deliberate murder of a woman on the bypass, road construction workers with jack hammers and drills because the bloody road crews couldn't wait.

Hit and run. And wouldn't it figure that she would be nearly the same age as Val had been, same sort of build and hair, too.

He'd felt horrible because it had been weeks—well, days—since he'd thought of Val at all. Used to be that she was first and foremost in his mind. He wasn't sure how he felt about the change, though he supposed, after ten years, that it was time her presence faded from his daily life and became the piquant memory that accompanied flowers on a birthday or anniversary. He just didn't want it to happen quite yet.

So, guilt and a headache. He became aware that he was teetering beside his desk in the office he shared with Lizzie and James. He pressed his hand to his forehead. He looked between his spread fingers to see Lizzie staring at him, dark eyes wide with concern.

"Sir? You all right?"

"No," he said, rounding the 'o' and raising his eyebrows in surrender. "Pounding headache."

She opened her bottom desk drawer, rummaged around in her purse. "I don't have anything. But he does. Top desk drawer. He's been having a lot of headaches lately, too."

Robbie nodded absently. "Must be the threat of new management." Making a mental note to ask James about his headaches later, he opened the man's top desk drawer. Neat as a pin, right down to the pencils—that had chew marks on them. Well, James had tried to quit smoking again recently.

There was a clear plastic box, the kind that might be tucked into a breast pocket, that seemed to contain generic white paracetamol tablets. Robbie took two, swallowed them dry, went back to his desk and dropped wearily into his chair. He focused on the notes he had made in the field while rubbing his neck. A minute later a cup of tea appeared at the edge of his vision.

"Thanks."

"Mine was cold," Lizzie said.

That's right, he thought, she'd need an excuse. She doesn't bring Hathaway tea or coffee. Or buy him pints. Must be nice to be a bagman these days. He gave it a sip.

It was good tea, right temperature and sweetness. Bit of milk. He allowed his eyes to close, hoping that between the tablets, the tea, and being in a quiet room, the incessant pounding in his head echoing the jackhammers of the road workers would go away.

But it didn't. The pain was still there, but it wasn't as insistent, wasn't as sharp. And he didn't care. Not at all. It was as if he was floating, buoyed up on a sea of consciousness.

Not like him to be poetic, but that's how he felt. Bloody brilliant. He could give Shelley, Keats and all the boys in the ruddy band what for. He was adrift on waves of words, images, feelings. The tea spilled in slow motion, creating a lake on his desk. And he felt now as if he was submerged.

And gradually he began to feel as if he was drowning.

It didn't matter to him. He'd recall later that he didn't even feel it when his head hit the edge of the desk as he slid off his chair onto the office floor.

+++

He knew he was in hospital. Antiseptic and institutional floor wax smell, the scratchy sheets on a too hard bed. He must not be hurt badly, though, because he didn't hear any beeping or ventilating.

'Course he could be dead.

He opened his eyes a bit. Took in the striped curtains that bulged with movement, the feeling of being in a ward rather than a private room. Loud conversation on one side of him. A & E, then. He turned his head.

James was sitting in a chair beside the bed.

His arms were folded and his face was a mask, almost a scowl. He met Robbie's eyes and pursed his lips as if he was angry.

_Couldn't be angry. Concerned, yes. Could see him being angry if I'd done something stupid in the field, taken an unnecessary risk. Is he angry at himself for some reason? At me? Can't be angry at me, I'm the one lying here. Or—oh, Christ, maybe I've had a stroke. Or a heart attack. Last thing I remember was that headache. Aneurysm? Coma? Or maybe some sort of—_

_—Jesus, what the bloody hell did I do to piss him off? All I did was have a cuppa at my desk…_

"What were those pills?"

James's face went red. "Prescription medication." He looked at the floor, his jaw working.

"For headaches, Lizzie said."

James chewed on his upper lip. His breath came out as a hard huff. "Painkillers."

"Did they have to pump my stomach?"

"No. Hydrocodone. You passed out."

"Lucky for you. What the hell—"

James's eyes flashed up to meet his. "If you needed a painkiller, it was a few steps down the hall. First aid kit right on the wall in the canteen. Lizzie—"

"—Lizzie said that you've been taking those tablets for a lot of headaches. Looked like generic paracetamol . Mind telling me why you're taking them?" _Oh, that shut him down_. "Right. Then mind telling me why they weren't in a prescription bottle?"

James seemed to hug himself tighter. "As I've explained to Innocent, it is more convenient to carry them with me in a small box."

Robbie counted to ten. _Most stubborn sod in the world._ Robbie took a deep breath as he reached seven and said, as reasonably as he could, "Why are you taking hydrocodone and why do you need to keep it with you?"

"It was prescribed for a medical condition."

"Gathered that. What for?"

"I've been over this with Innocent."

"I'm the one who passed out, though. So I'm entitled to know why the bloody hell you are taking them." He said this is in a reasonable, measured tone, biting the inside of his lip to keep from yelling at the man. James was ill enough to be taking medication that sure as hell wasn't hydrocodone. Robbie had thrown his back out often enough over the years and, with one thing and another, he knew a couple of tablets wouldn't drop him to the floor, not even on an empty stomach. Didn't even look like hydrocodone. Had to be stronger stuff.

And why hadn't he said anything about being sick in the first place? "James?"

James's arms were pulled so tight that it looked as if he might snap in two. Every part of him seemed hard and brittle. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again, Robbie." He got up abruptly. "I have to go."

And he left.

 _Christ_.

Robbie looked for a phone beside the bed, and finding none, he sat up, jabbed the call button for a nurse, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, scouting around for a bag of his clothes, his mobile, something to answer the million questions going through his mind.

He'd bloody well get to the bottom of this.

+++

"Ma'am, I don't think you understand—"

"No, Robbie, I do understand. You are the one who does not understand. I cannot talk about this. Not with you, not with James, not with anyone. James has taken advice." She folded her arms in an eerie imitation of Hathaway's earlier posture, as if she were bracing herself. She was standing and leaning her backside against her desk. "He wasn't supposed to be there in A & E to begin with. He nearly killed you, remember?"

Robbie raised a dismissive hand. "He didn't. I'm fine. Had the best night's sleep I've had in ages. My fault for digging in his desk. And then when I go in to find out why he's taking a painkiller powerful enough to lay me flat, he's gone. Disappeared. You say you don't know where—"

"I don't. He's entitled to leave and he took it. I've given you his solicitor's card. Family lawyer, from what I gather." She tilted her head. "I don't know where he went. If it helps, I know he didn't want to go. I know he was concerned about you, Robbie." She sighed. "I can tell you that he was coming down the hall as you were being wheeled out and I hope I never have to see that look on anyone's face ever again. The paramedics assured him that you had passed out, you were only being taken for observation. Though because of the possibility of poisoning, the pills had to accompany you to hospital."

"He told me it was only hydrocodone." Robbie took in her exasperated look and realization dawned. "Not as if I was going to hang about in A & E to find out differently."

She raised an eyebrow. "Well, if he had told you it was something stronger, something like oxycontin, you would have thought of cancer. And it's not cancer, Robbie. That much I can tell you." She went around her desk and sat down. "Have you been to his flat? You used to have keys."

"Looks like he bolted, though he didn't take much. His guitar is gone."

She brightened. "That's—that's a good sign, then."

"Really?" Robbie didn't bother to hide his irritation. "How can him making off with his guitar and leaving me here with a load of questions be a good sign?"

Her face softened. "Oh, Robbie. It means that he can still play it."

+++

"Are you certain he didn't tell you anything?" This was the second time he'd spoken with Laura. Robbie ticked a box from his mental list. He'd initially questioned nearly everyone James knew, even going so far as to ask the barista at James's favorite coffee shop if she'd seen him.

"No." Laura sighed. She seemed frustrated that she wasn't able to be more help. She reached across the small table, gave his hand a brief squeeze as she held it. Her eyes were filled with compassion. "And Jean says it isn't cancer?" She seemed to give this some thought. "You went through his flat. Did you check the medicine cabinet?"

"Cleared out." He didn't mention the things that he did find: the fact that only clothes were taken and a few books and personal belongings. Special things. Certain CDs. Strangely enough, it looked as though there were fewer kitchen utensils and the coffee machine was missing. Just enough to fill his car. As if he'd be away for weeks.

"Robbie, let's look at this from what we do know. I heard he was taking morphine."

"Right. Prescribed for pain."

Laura nodded as if she'd expected this. "That's what he says." Her hands clutched the coffee cup. "But what if it wasn't?"

"He doesn't have a drug problem."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I know him and James would sooner put away a bottle before he'd take a pill."

"And yet," she insisted, "he was keeping morphine in his desk to take as needed."

Robbie folded his arms. He knew that she knew better, so he wasn't going to get his back up about the point. "Not on drugs."

"Okay. Well then, let's look at what else we know. Jean says he's hired a lawyer? Why? Why not go through the Police Federation rep?"

"Afraid he'd lose his job, I reckon. Or maybe he's concerned about his right to privacy at work about his medical condition. _" Hell, maybe he thought he was breaking policy without sufficient cause and felt the Federation wouldn't support him for some reason._

"But if the medication is prescribed, then he's looking at a reprimand for not having it in a prescription bottle. It's not actionable. They can't dismiss him for taking needed medication. And he can't be afraid that you would bring a suit against him since you were the nosey parker who went into his desk. So why the lawyer?"

"All right, if the pills weren't prescribed, then he'd have to enter an addiction counseling program, but he wouldn't lose his job."

She nodded. "Right. And I agree with you about James—he's not the sort to take pills." She looked up, thinking. "If I had spotted anything, you know, any outward indication of drug dependency, even a tendency towards alcoholism, or anything more than his bloody cigarettes, I would have said something to him. And I have mentioned to him that I've been concerned about what he uses to get himself through. He always listens. Well, not about the smoking." She seemed to collapse into herself and then drew herself up straighter, looking in the distance. "He and I have coffee now and again, too." She pursed her lips. "No, I would have seen something, Robbie. He and I talk—actual conversation. You might want to give that a go sometime."

It was one thing to talk with Laura—and they'd had enough troubles trying to do that—quite another to talk with James. It had been hard enough telling James that he and Laura had decided they'd rather be friends. James seemed more crushed than they were, to tell the truth. He moped around the nick like he was devastated that all of his pushing and shoving to get Laura and Robbie together had failed. Told him he shouldn't plan on a second career as a matchmaker and the man didn't even crack a smile. It was as if now that Robbie was unattached, James had to do something about it.

Confused the bloody hell out of Robbie because all he wanted was to have everything go back to the way it had been before Laura: pints after work, takeaway, telly, and James kipping on his couch now and again. He thought James wanted that too.

And now this.

"Unless he's simply been using for years and we've both been taken in," Laura mused. "Might explain why he's so isolated and awkward. If he was in pain all the time…"

Robbie shook his head, staring at the table. Not shy, our Laura. She would speak her mind and be heard. "No, that's not it. So we agree he needed to take the pills for some reason."

Laura's mouth became a straight line. "If he was in enough pain to require morphine, he wouldn't be able to man a desk, Robbie. He'd be out on disability. It would also call into question every bit of evidence, every line of questioning, every arrest he'd made since the medication was prescribed."

No. Robbie's stomach churned. Right, well, that might explain the lawyer, then. "But what's wrong with him, d'y'think?"

She glanced first at the table, and then at him, her eyes sad and kind. She reached for his hand. "He's seriously ill and been prescribed morphine, Robbie. Does the reason why really matter?"

+++

Robbie rubbed the back of his neck and then stretched his arms over his head. He was getting too old to sit for hours in front of a computer screen, even if he was sitting on his couch to do it now. He'd spent most of his day at the nick looking for something, anything, to indicate where James had gone after he left A & E yesterday. Thought about calling hospitals. He had called the number on the solicitor's card—no answer, which was odd for a lawyer, even a family lawyer would have an answering machine. The microwave in the kitchen beeped. Penne pasta ready to eat. He set his laptop aside as his mobile rang. Good, maybe it was a shout and he'd be able to chuck the meal into the bin and pick up Indian food on the way home. Get his mind off that awkward sod. His awkward sod.

"Lewis."

"Dad, when were you going to call me?" Lyn's voice was irritated.

"Well, they let me out of hospital, so I didn't see the need to, pet." This was all he needed now, his daughter on his case for not calling about being in A & E .

"What?"

"I was only in for observation. If it had been something more serious, I would have called. I'm fine."

There was a pause. A long pause. "Hospital?"

"Isn't that why you're calling?"

"No-o-o-o. But I'd love to hear about that. I'm calling because I just wanted to know if you and James were coming here for dinner tonight. I just saw him—"

"You saw James? Just now? In Manchester?" Robbie rose, eyes scouting for shoes, keys. "You're sure?"

"Yeah, he was sitting in front of the Salford smoking a cigarette. So I wanted to tell you that he blew the surprise. So—are you planning to join us for dinner tonight? We were going to have, well, Jack's been so good about my new schedule we were going to get McDonald's. We could get takeaway at that Thai place you like, though. I just need to know—"

"Lyn, love. I'm in Oxford. Do me a favor, pet, and go back to where you saw James—a hotel, is it? And sit on him if you have to, but I need to talk to him. Don't let him go anywhere, understand?" He grabbed his jacket. "I'm leaving now." He rang off.

The phone buzzed again. Lyn.

"I'm going to be on the road, pet, and—"

"Dad, the Salford Royal isn't a hotel. It's a medical center. What's going on?"

Christ. Oh, Christ. "Lyn, please, for the love of all that's holy, go and see if James is still there. You're a nurse, can you—would you find out if he's a patient there? Can you do that?"

Long pause. "Dad."

Crap. "Well, find him, then. Sit on him." Bloody patient confidentiality. "I'll be there as soon as I can."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to Wendymr for Brit-pick and beta. :-) Any errors that remain are mine.

Robbie parked in front of Lyn's house. James's car was nowhere to be seen.

Lyn answered the door, her manner hushed as she gave him a hug. "Aw, Dad. You made good time. Jack's already in bed and Tim's working with James." The air coming out from the house was warm, moist and smelled faintly like a lotion shop on any High Street. Lavender?

Tim was a physiotherapist. Was it James's back? All this for a back problem?

He and Lyn went into the lounge. Like a bloody sauna in there. Two space heaters were positioned on either side of a portable massage table in the middle of the room. New Age music on the stereo. Incense? Some sort of smell along with the lavender. Not bad. Made you want to breathe deep, take it all in. Soothing, it was. And there was James, stretched out on the table, naked from the waist up, a sheet over his long legs. Tim was working on James's left arm, rubbing and pulling and twisting the flesh there.

James turned his head and Robbie could see that the man's face was red and contorted with pain.

"Robbie?" James croaked. He moved to rise, but Tim eased him back down. "No, no, no. Shouldn't be here."

"Tim, since Dad's finally here, I'm going to run out for that mirror at Tesco. He can listen for Jack." Lyn kissed Tim's cheek and put her hand on James's head. "Stay right there."

"I'm sorry," James managed, trying to turn his head. "I'm so sorry…"

"Well, you will be, James, if you keep apologizing." She removed her hand. "Just let us take care of you. Jesus." She met her father's eyes and shook her head. "He's been apologizing since he got here."

"What's going on? How can I help?" Robbie reached out and put his hand on James's head where Lyn's hand had been moments before. He'd never touched James like that before. The buzz cut he favored since his return from Spain was soft and warm against Robbie's palm, bit like a baby duck. Surprisingly intimate, it was.

James gave a shuddering sigh as if he wished the floor would open and swallow him whole.

"James," Lyn said as she struggled into her jacket, "tell Dad. He's going to keep at you until you do."

"Not supposed to talk about it except with my health care providers." James cracked open an eye and winced as Tim did something to his arm.

"You're allowed to share medical concerns with your significant other," Tim said off-handedly.

Robbie inhaled deeply, trying to suss out what was happening here. Why James was on a table with Tim literally twisting his arm? He could see tension rippling across the muscles in James's shoulders and Tim's faint annoyance whenever James started in on his apologetic litany again.

Not cancer, Innocent said. AIDS? 'Course not. Though suppose it could be, takes years—no, can't be AIDS, unless it settled into his bones somehow. Not his back, because Tim was working on his arm. Left arm. The small scar from getting shot at Crevecoeur was white against the red skin. _Took a bullet meant for me._

"It's the shooting, isn't it?" Robbie ventured. "Injured in the line of duty. What's going on, man? And why the lawyer, James?" His voice trailed off as Tim glanced up.

"He needs more help than the NHS and police insurance can provide," Tim said simply. "Not nearly enough for this."

"For what?" Robbie demanded. He hated that his voice sounded petulant and whining. "James? Please, man. I can't help if you don't tell--"

"You were there when it happened, Robbie. I don't—shit, shit, shit." James tried to pull his arm from Tim's grasp. "Sorry. Sorry."

"But you were fine! Took you to the doctor myself. And it's been years. How can this be bothering you now?"

Tim wiped his forehead with his forearm and inclined his head to motion Robbie closer. "You want to help? Then let me show you what I'm doing."

"I don't need his help!" James protested.

"But I do. Can't do two things at once. C'mon, Robbie, get in here. Say we have a patient with, oh, for example, nerve damage. Lots of names over the last two hundred years for an injury to a peripheral nerve that causes intense, chronic, unremitting pain. Now it's chronic regional pain syndrome."

This was too much. The heat, the smell in the room, the way James's eyes were open now, pleading for understanding and the words kept bouncing around as if he couldn't get him mind around them: intense, chronic, unremitting pain. Too much.

"You okay, there? Dizzy? Hang on to James. Best thing for both of you." Tim positioned Robbie's hands at the top of James's shoulder and showed him the stroke and pressure required, guiding his touch. "The important thing is for him to guide you. What he can tolerate in the way of touch may vary—sometimes a breeze can set it off."

"Set what off?" Robbie moved his hands haltingly across James's skin, uncomfortable and stiff because he didn't touch James this way. Pat on the back now and again, but James wasn't one for touching or being touched, at least not lately. As much as he wanted to give James a manly hug and hear him say he was fine, he also wanted to wring his neck for not telling him what the blazes was going on here.

Tim seemed to be waiting for James to supply an answer, and when none was forthcoming, he sighed and continued.

"Cold causes flare-ups. Stress, too. Over-use. Lack of use. More pressure, Robbie—think of it as your hands doing the work of the nerve. His nerves aren't working properly." He continued to rub, his hands alongside Robbie's, adding massage oil to make the work of moving muscle and tendon easier. "Nerves move muscles, blood, provide sensory input—all of it. See how the skin of his arm here is a shade darker than the other? It's like that all the time, he tells me. That edema—swelling—too, is typical of an 'exacerbation.' Now, can you feel his muscle beneath your hands?"

He could. And the warmth of his skin, hot beneath his hand, feverish, almost. And, as he came up to the top of his shoulder, he could feel James's breath on his arm.

"No, really feel it against your palms. His muscle is twitching."

"Myoclonus," James said softly.

"'Twitching' is a perfectly adequate word," Tim said. "You want the muscle to calm, to feel smooth rather than jumpy. So you smooth it to sooth it." He demonstrated a stroking motion, positioning Robbie's hands on James's arm and shoulder. "See, you're a natural. There's a reason why they have your significant others go to these training programs, James."

"Training program?" Robbie asked, feeling that itch on his scalp the words 'training program' always seemed to produce. _What training program?_ "Aye, and I'd need a bloody training program to make heads or tail of all this." The man was lying there slick with oil and smelling of flowers and talking nonsense. "Significant other," Robbie snorted. "Don't I wish. Should get you an app to track your mobile."

"Not my significant other. Not a training program." James rolled a baleful eye at Robbie.

"Guys. Not helpful." Tim huffed.

"Pain management, not training. He hates training programs." James murmured. "I probably need to take more gabapentin. The oxy is beginning to hit."

"Good. The other is in your bag, yeah? We're going to have to work out somewhere to keep your meds while you're here to keep them safe from Jack—he gets into everything." Tim looked at Robbie. "Keep that up. I'll be right back."

Robbie concentrated on rhythmic movements because thinking about anything else was overwhelming. It was too much. James, here, now, like this, was too much.

"Lyn saw you and called me," Robbie volunteered in a quiet voice. "I didn't know where you went. Told her to sit on you until I could get here."

"She threatened me," James said. "Effective use of guilt. Must be something they teach in medical courses since Laura is also a master."

"Prerogative of the fairer sex, maybe?" He wanted to ask, was dying to ask, and he knew, from the way that James was barely tolerating his touch, almost as if he was a coach rather than his best mate, that he wasn't going to get anything out of the man until he was damned good and ready. He could feel the tension building in the man as he moved his hands and he began to get into a rhythm so that he wouldn't undo the progress Tim had made so far.

"Nothing fair about her tactics." James frowned. "She said that if I didn't get into her car you'd never forgive yourself and that you would suffer intractable guilt for the rest of your life for not taking care of me."

Robbie chuckled. "That's my girl."

"And then on the way over here she questioned me—"

"Her father's daughter." Robbie said proudly.

"Reminded me of Torquemada pulling off bits of flesh."

"Don't you mean the vulture at Sisyphus?"

James cast a baleful eye up at him from the table. "I do, actually. Painkillers. I can't think, Robbie. I'm useless. Worse than useless, taking up their time like this. They've both been very kind, but I can't be here. My car is in the car park at the hospital. The hospital has booked a hotel room."

 _Why aren't you staying in the hospital, then?_ Robbie wanted to ask. If it's a procedure, why not stay in hospital where you can be monitored properly?

Hearing the words: chronic, unremitting pain echoing again in his head. _Too much._

"I'm so sorry." James's voice was barely audible. "They're making too much of this."

Odd how James’s thoughts echoed his own.

"I don't think they'd be doing this if they didn't think it was necessary, James."

"I've been fine for months."

"This has been going on that long?"

"Yeah." The muscles beneath Robbie's hands writhed. "Longer. It's fine. I can handle it."

_Sure you can. That's why you're stretched out naked on a table covered in oil and doped up on morphine._

"You're staying here tonight, James. It's too late to run you back out to Salford," Tim said, coming back into the room. He was holding a glass of water with a straw in it in one hand and several towels and a bed sheet beneath an arm. He gestured for Robbie to take the towels.

They were very warm.

"One going across his arms and shoulder, one going down his back. There's a sheet, too—yes, there—and that needs to be draped over his body." Tim set down the glass. "Watch how I do this, Robbie, so you can do this when you get him home."

"It won't be necessary." James sounded adamant.

"Save it," Robbie snapped, immediately regretting his retreat into anger at the man's refusal to allow anyone to help him. "You press down as you put on the sheet?"

"Deep pressure. Helps to organize his perception of where his body is in space."

"Proprioception," murmured James. "Is there something in the water? Can't have anything by mouth."

"Yeah--vitamins. You don't want him to shiver or get tickled as it starts off a chain reaction. Once an involuntary reaction takes place and the pain starts, it's hard to rein it in. All the nerves fire. Had a client with foot pain who said it was like walking on shards of glass, even when the foot was elevated. Hadn't had more than a few continuous hours of sleep in years."

Bloody hell. Robbie stopped moving his hands, shocked.

"Want to keep the hands moving and progressively ease off the limb," Tim said, showing how it was done as he finished up. "James. Do you feel warm enough? Comfortably numb?"

James hmm'd. "Thank you. Can't thank you enough."

Tim rested his hands on James's shoulders and then tilted his head to indicate that Robbie should take over that position. "James was able to get in to Salford on referral. So tomorrow, they're going to attempt to reduce the pain before the next pain management program starts. Otherwise he won't be fit company to participate."

"He doesn't need to know," James muttered.

"I do too. I'm going to be there, daft sod. Hold your hand. Not that you're fit company on even your best days." He felt as though he needed to joke with the man to get him to give up some of the information he was holding close.

James snorted, but managed a relieved smile all the same.

"It's an inpatient procedure, but it's not a simple thing. You won't be able to be with him," Tim said, handing pills to James and holding the glass and straw for him. "Single big sip, no more." James still hadn't moved from his position on the table. After James finished, Tim set the glass back on the coffee table that had been pushed to the edge of the room. "Needle's about this long." He held up his hands about six inches apart and continued, "And it goes into the top of the spine. It either works or it doesn't—there's no way to tell until they do it. No telling how long it will last, either. They did the other tests already, didn't they?"

"Monofilaments only, but that's been over a year ago. They'll do a thermography test and then a nerve conduction study before the procedure." James sighed. "I had blood tests, a bone scan. And I had just had an electromyography test when Lyn caught me at the side of the road. They stick a tiny needle into your arm to determine muscle function. It was excruciating. I left the clinic planning to throw myself under a bus."

"You need to stop talking like that," Tim said. "And you'll need to quit smoking, or at least not smoke before the thermography test tomorrow."

"If I can't smoke I might as well be dead."

"No call for high drama." Robbie bent to look James in the eye. "You'll be just fine. Anyway, thought you gave up smoking."

"Nope. But I only had a puff. I was thwarted and then kidnapped." James heaved a sigh and rolled up on an elbow, waving Tim away and swinging his legs off the table. He pulled the sheets and towels over him, cocooning for warmth; his upper body seemed unsteady on the table. "I should change before Lyn gets back."

"I take it the oxy hit." Tim wiped his hands on one of the towels. "Give it a few minutes before you get up so you don't keel over."

James nodded. He met Tim's eyes. "I—I truly appreciate all you and Lyn have done. Thanks, Tim."

"No worries, mate. I've put your bag in the room upstairs—the door's open. It's an oven up there. I'm going to wait until these heaters cool down and we'll set one up there for you to keep it that way. Robbie, I'm afraid you're on the couch down here."

"What if he needs something during the night?"

Tim smiled. "Then Lyn or I will get it for him."

"Or I'll get it myself."

"Strange house and you on morphine?"

James shook his head slightly and headed up the stairs, holding the sheet around him with dignity.

Robbie was torn between wanting to help Tim put things away and wanting to run up after James. What if he couldn't manage?

"Go on," Tim said gently. "I've got this. When you get him in his pyjamas, come back down. Or better yet, have him lie down on the bed up there. Lyn should be back with the mirror by then."

Robbie rubbed the back of his neck, looking at the disarray of the lounge room. "I just don't understand what's going on. Why Manchester? Why not London?"

"Lots of cutting edge research being done on this in Manchester, believe it or not. Top doctors, private funding. He's in the best possible hands."

Robbie sighed, and looked around the room, shaking his head, unable to fathom why his daughter was like her mother had been, hell-bent on re-doing the house. "So re-decorating? The mirror?"

"The mirror is part of therapy we're going to try tonight to see if we can give him some relief," Tim explained, wiping the table down. "I've got this." He indicated the stairs. "Could you see to James? He's not one to ask for help, I take it."

"You have no idea," muttered Robbie, trudging up the stairs.

James was standing at the top of the stairs on the landing, the sheet wound around his body like some sort of Greek statue. "There's a mistake," he said quietly. "I think. My things are in Tim and Lyn's room. It looks as though Tim and Lyn have moved their things into this room—"

"That's the guest room," said Robbie, glancing into the small room. There were hospital scrubs set out on the duvet, nightclothes, a couple of magazines, and a laptop on the double bed. A large jumble of sheets was in one corner.

When they had stayed over the last time, Robbie had slept in there. James had slept on the couch downstairs. Neither was ideal for guests and he wasn't looking forward to a night on the sofa after making that drive up from Oxford in one go.

The room across the hall, the master bedroom, was immaculate: all personal items removed from bedside tables on either side of the king sized bed. The duvet was turned down, the sheets apparently fresh. James's guitar was propped against one wall. His bag was set on the bench at the foot of the bed. He glanced into the en-suite which had been hurriedly wiped down with a floral-scented cleaner that Lyn used for guests. _Looks like James would be sleeping in here._ Robbie waved James in and shut the door.

"I'm—this is too kind. Could you talk with Lyn, I feel horrible for putting them out to begin with and this is really too much. I do have a hotel booked in town." He yawned. "It's part of the program."

Robbie sighed. He wasn't about to talk with Lyn about this. He was feeling too proud of her, too fond of her partner, and too appreciative for what they were doing to help. For them to do this for James was right, to his mind. Not much he wouldn't do for the man, despite him keeping Robbie in the dark about all this. For his family to do this for his best mate, well, it made his heart full.

"Do you want to take a shower? Do you need help changing?" Robbie said, gently but firmly. He was going to see that James took care of himself whether the man wanted him there or not.

"No. Once the medication takes effect, I'm able to manage."

"I don't see how. Laid me flat."

James went to his bag, grasping his sheet with one hand. He kept his other arm to his side and sighed.

Robbie glanced at him understanding that James would never ask for help. _Looks like I’ll have to become a bloody mind-reader._ He opened the bag, pulled out track pants and rummaged for a t-shirt.

"Really, you don't have to do that, I'm fine." James insisted weakly.

 _Not leaving, man, you must know me well enough by now._ He saw surrender in James's eyes and looked down before James could see the satisfaction he felt: _I am going to help you whether you like it or not and I'm glad we agree on that._

"I haven't been able to get my arm over my head," James volunteered. "There should be an old shirt with buttons in there."

Robbie found it and underwear. He bent beside James holding the pants, not looking at James at all. Poor man must be feeling mortified, not even being able to get briefs on. The sheet dropped and he felt James steady himself by putting his good hand on Robbie's back.

"Shit. I hate this."

"James, it's me or I can get Lyn up here when she gets back, as she's a nurse, and…"

"Cheers," James bit out, tugging up the pants with one hand. He huffed an angry sigh.

At least Robbie hoped it was fueled by anger and not pain.

The track pants followed, with Robbie averting his eyes as he helped pull them up over James's bum. He stood up to help with the shirt and realized that James had had to struggle with putting on a shirt and getting dressed like this for days, perhaps weeks.

"How have you been able to get dressed?" He wanted to know.

"Slowly." James shrugged. "I wasn't sleeping well. Getting dressed for work kept me occupied." He gave Robbie a strained smile. "I had to start wearing a clip-on tie, though. Maroon. Too short and didn't go with a bloody thing. I wasn't at my sartorial best. It was awful."

"I wondered about that. Saw you without a tie, too, what, a week ago now."

"It was a particularly bad day. I was truly mortified: Innocent noticed. She asked if we were instituting a 'casual Tuesday' office policy. I think Laura noticed, too, but she was too kind to comment."

Robbie sat on the edge of the bed. "Why didn't you tell me? About—everything?"

"What could you do? Dress me?"

_Bugger. 'Course I would have, if I had known._

James sat beside him. "And I couldn't let anyone know, Robbie. I knew I could work and do my job despite the pain, but if anyone knew that I was taking morphine and anti-depressants…"

"Anti-depressants too?" Bloody hell. "People with cancer continue to work."

James nodded. "But this isn't cancer. I don't mean to demean their pain, not at all. It's excruciating and debilitating, even when it's being successfully managed. It's just that a person with cancer can be treated. If the treatment isn't successful, they die. This is different."

What? How could he be so bloody calm about this? Robbie'd seen people he loved die from cancer—worst thing in the world, to his mind. "Different? How so?"

"For this disorder, if the pharmacological treatment doesn't work, you continue to live and you wish you were dead."

Melodramatic, isn't it? Robbie stared at him and then put his hand on James's thigh, his palm upraised, waiting. James sighed and took his hand. "I'm glad you're here."

"Not going anywhere."

There was a tap on the door jamb, Lyn peeked in. "Dad? Good, you're dressed, James. Are you feeling up to this? I've got the mirror."

"What's all this about a mirror?" Robbie reluctantly let go of James's hand. Was he meant to look into it and wish himself well? Mirror, mirror on the wall?

"Mirror therapy. Tim's done this with a few orthopedic clients before referring them on to the pain management center." Lyn gave them an encouraging smile. "Let's get you on the bed, James." She brought in a long mirror, the kind that you might find behind a door. "It's fairly light."

Tim came in with a portable heater and set it up in a corner. "Should have had you pick up another one of these so they have it when they get home."

"I hope I don't need it," James said softly, stretching out on his back on the bed. "Is this all right?"

"Yeah." Lyn and Tim took either end of the mirror and set it on its edge, perpendicular to James's body, bisecting it from chest to groin.

"What's this?"

"Brain re-training," James explained. "The mirror is reflecting my good arm. Tim says the idea is to move the good arm and my brain will eventually transfer that good feeling to my other arm so that I don't feel pain when I move the bad arm."

"We use it for phantom limb pain to induce synaesthesia," Tim added. He adjusted the position of the long mirror so that it stood on its edge, lined up exactly from James's sternum to crotch, cutting the man in two. "Robbie, you need to stand over here so that you can see both arms. Let's see if you can hold the mirror with one hand and help James move his bad arm to match the movements of the good arm. Yes, stand on the non-reflecting side of the mirror. James, you need to focus on the mirror—can you see your entire good arm reflected?"

James nodded. "It's a very odd sensation."

"It's supposed to be." Tim smiled. "You shouldn't be able to see your bad arm at all. Keep your eyes on the reflection. Might need to move your head just a bit. Now raise your good arm about three inches off the bed. Robbie, you do the same with the bad arm—move it at the same time that he moves the good arm."

James moved his good arm. Robbie moved his bad arm. James's eyes widened.

"Is that painful?"

"Uncomfortable, but not painful." His voice was thoughtful.

Robbie leaned over and watched from James's perspective. Because of the mirror's reflection, it looked as if James was moving both arms.

"Right, well, you'll do it without moving the affected arm as well. Alternating sets. Little and often." Tim's eyes flickered to Robbie, who stopped. "Not a lot of research on how many reps to do for each type of movement, but the idea is to de-sensitize you to the pain as well as re-train your brain." He raised and lowered James's good arm and then indicated James should continue to do it on his own.

"But he's not moving the bad arm," Robbie pointed out.

"Doesn't matter—the reflection tricks the brain. Tim worked with a returning veteran who didn't even have an arm. Watching the good arm move helped reduce their phantom limb pain," Lyn said, proudly. "The brain is absolutely amazing. How does it feel, James?"

"Weird. I can see what looks like my left arm in the mirror moving, but I can't feel it." James raised his good arm and Robbie mirrored his action, lifting the other. "There's a connection." He sounded uncertain. "Tenuous, but there."

"Once you strengthen that connection, you'll feel less pain. Try it without lifting the bad arm."

James inhaled sharply, eyes wide. He looked at Robbie and then at Tim. "I'd like to go over the research."

"I'll email the links."

James raised his arm again, watching the reflection in the mirror closely. "The disconnect reminds me of the desensitizing exercises I did when I was first diagnosed."

Diagnosed with what? Robbie bit into his bottom lip, his mouth clamped tight because he wanted, oh, he wanted to scream at the three of them. He'd been going along with all of this, the painkillers, and the massage, and now they had a bloody mirror on the bed and James was re-training his brain.

Size of his brain? Could take decades.

He just wanted to know what James had. Just wanted an explanation. Maybe an hour or two researching on the internet. 'Course he could ask James, too, but he wasn't at all sure he'd learn anything helpful.

"You did desensitization?" Tim asked. "Through physio?"

"Some. Enough to get used to wearing long sleeves. Can't wear short sleeves of any kind." James heaved a sigh. "Did it on my own. I didn't spend much time doing physio."

"Well, that was your first mistake," Lyn said.

"That's what I told him," Robbie supplied. Now this—not taking care of himself at the time, five no, six years ago, now—that was something he could understand. "Didn't I say that you should give it more time?"

"Hey, people, not helpful." Tim picked up the mirror and set it against the wall. He glanced at his watch. "That's enough for one night, I think. You feeling sleepy yet, James?"

James was lying on one side of the bed. He sighed. "I'm fine, really. I'd get up—"

"Don't you dare! Dad, I was thinking that maybe you could stay up here with James—the bed is big enough for both of you and that couch won't do your back any good. It's fine with us."

Robbie looked at James with something approaching alarm. James had the same expression, his face going white against the pillow. "Might not be fine with us, though, pet."

"Oh, Dad. We know, and it's okay. I wish you'd told us when you were here the last time. I'm just glad we can force you two to work this out before tomorrow. Mum always said you should never go to bed angry. And Jack will be so happy you're staying here while James goes through his program, Dad."

"Uh, huh." Robbie stared at James, mystified. What the devil was she on about? Him and James? Did James—?

James gave a minute shake of his head.

"We'll leave you to it, then." Tim took Lyn's arm since she seemed reluctant to leave. "I hope you're able to get some rest tonight, James."

James looked up from the bed. "Thank you for everything, Tim. Lyn."

"Yeah, thanks, pet. Tim." Robbie kissed his daughter goodnight and clapped Tim on the arm. "Appreciate it."

The door closed quietly behind them.

Robbie turned to James. "Well, you all right with this? Sharing a bed?"

"I think I can keep your virtue safe. I am not moving."

Robbie snorted a laugh. "But you're feeling better, yeah?"

"Considerably."

"The wonders of modern medicine." Robbie sat on the edge of the bed, toed off his shoes. He'd sleep on top of the duvet; the room was too bloody hot to be under the covers anyway. He glanced at James, trying to not to jostle the man.

"Hardly modern. The milk of the poppy has been known since ancient times."

"You need help getting up to get under the covers?" At James's shake of his head, Robbie continued, "Pillows?" Without waiting for James to acquiesce, he motioned for him to raise his head so that he could put another pillow behind his head so that Robbie would be more comfortable talking with him. Seeing James flat on his back and helpless brought back too many memories of harsh words and the smell of smoke. "I meant using a mirror to, what, reprogram your brain? Neuroplasticity?"

A slow smile grew on James's face. His bad arm was resting on the outside edge of the bed almost as if he wished he could detach it. "Look at you."

"Advert on telly for an internet thing." Robbie stretched out and rolled to his side and propped up his head. He almost felt as if he was girding his loins to talk with the man. James would appreciate the literary reference, if he could remember its source, he thought.

Val had been right: never go to bed angry. He wondered then what she would have thought of this, him in bed with his former sergeant, and in their daughter's house, no less. He imagined she would have laughed good-naturedly at his foolishness, at his concern. She would have chided him too, the way Laura had done. _Just talk to him, Robbie. How hard can that be?_

Nearly impossible, he thought.

He wondered if he would ever have the moxie to tell James how close he felt to the man. How much he cared for him, he was his best mate, after all. And more than that, too, probably, or he wouldn't have been on such a tear to drive up all the way up here at the end of a day at work. And wasn't that something to think about.

He didn't want to take the chance of cocking up their relationship like he'd done with Laura, though. He and Laura had been friends who tried for something more. They were still friends. Because even though he and Laura would always be friends, it was because Laura forced him to talk about things like feelings and such. And he and James didn't talk about stuff like that. Wasn't necessary, he thought. Because they were just mates. Best mates.

 _Significant other. What does that mean, anyhow?_ Lyn couldn't think—no, she was joking, had to be. Tim had told her that Robbie was worried about James wandering about, that's all. Easiest to put them up in the same room.

Not like anything, well, romantic would ever come of his friendship with James. Or anything more than romantic. Though he'd imagined—well, it was only once that he'd given it any thought, but that had been enough, hadn't it?—he’d dreamt he was in bed with James. Who wouldn't? Bloody attractive man in all respects, especially the way he cared for others. The way he had cared for Robbie over the years.

Dishy, Laura’d said, wanting to limit herself to appearances.

He’d never expected it to actually happen—sharing a bed with James. Even in this most innocent of circumstances. And he sure as hell didn't imagine that anything would come of it now. James needed him, and that trumped everything.

_How the bloody hell had he been able to hide this from me—from everyone!—for years without me noticing? And am I missing anything now?_

Because they were in bed and James seemed not as resigned as Robbie thought he should be. He wasn't panicked, either. More—accepting. Grateful? As if this—being in bed together—was both unexpected and welcome. As if he needed Robbie to be there for him. As if he was uncertain, but willing to let him in. His guard was down. Maybe it was the massage, the drugs. The bloody mirror.

And Robbie didn't really know what to do about it now except…

"Tell me now, James. Please." Robbie gritted his teeth, not wanting to sound like Laura, but resorting now to what he was familiar with, the way she would make him talk about things he didn't want to, as if she was going to pull each word from his throat if he didn't give them up willingly. "How long has this been going on, what's been happening. All of it." He saw a flash of fear in James's eyes and resorted to their safe place: work. The oblique approach, then. "Yes, all right, I gather you're not supposed to, but you're not under oath not to tell me. Not yet, anyway. Why the lawyer? Is this all about work? Is it something else entirely?"

"No, it's not all about work." James sighed, resigned. He closed his eyes. "I wish it was."

"Lawyer's information from Innocent." He pulled the card from his shirt pocket and waved it in front of James before placing it deliberately on the bed in the space between them. "The number rings and rings. Too involved in pro bono work to have an answering service?"

"I expect so." James shut his eyes and exhaled. Not a sigh—this was the resigned sort of breathing a man might do if he was done in. "It's an old card. Went to uni with him. The first attack of reflex sympathetic dystrophy—that was what my GP incorrectly called it—occurred a few weeks after I was shot. I was given a scrip, a referral to physio, and sent on my way."

Robbie refrained from saying a word, but it was an effort. He remembered badgering the man to go to physio and then he dropped it when James had said, in a cold voice, 'This does not affect my work, Sir. If and when and it does, then it will be your concern.'

_Well, it's my concern now._

James was letting the silence spin out, an effective technique in the interview room, Robbie knew, since he had made a point of teaching James that very thing early on in their partnership.

"Palladone was prescribed, which was pulled off the market because it was considerably stronger than the medication I now take. It, um, affected my judgement, on occasion." He opened his eyes and glanced sideways at Robbie and seemed to surrender, closing his eyes again. "You'll recall a few months after I was shot that I pulled a loaded rifle from a woman?"

Robbie's eyes widened. He remembered thinking at the time that James was crazy to take that chance. Apparently he was right.

"Several months later, my guitar was stolen from a concert because I was an idiot and brought it with me?" He opened his eyes to look at Robbie. "I thought I was invincible and I was doing stupid, careless things. I realized then that if I was in pain, I needed to deal with it in some other way otherwise I was in danger of becoming an addict. I certainly wasn't thinking clearly. I was drinking quite a bit."

"I remember," Robbie said, softly. Explained a lot.

"At first I tried to ignore how miserable I was, but I couldn't. The pain was intractable. I was prescribed ketamine, which did help, but it was difficult to get on a regular basis at the time even though I had a doctor's prescription."

"Class three drug, you said. I wondered how you had that at your fingertips. The drug trial, Gansa, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, well, ketamine and I had a love/hate relationship. I could easily see any one of those trial subjects leaping out of a window. I told Innocent, expecting to be pulled from the case because I felt my experience with the drug might affect my judgment. She didn't see the conflict." His voice was soft, hushed.

 _She didn't say a bloody thing to me,_ Robbie thought. _Well. Maybe she thought I had enough to deal with given what was going on between Laura and that old boyfriend of hers, Franco, not to mention the way James and I were sniping at each other._

James continued: "I got irritable, irrational, almost the longer I was on it. I even insisted that you question Laura about her role in a crime where her university housemate was murdered. My preoccupation with doing my job perfectly made me blind to her innocence. I almost wanted her to be guilty, Robbie. That's how much I—well." His eyes seemed to tear up. "It took seeing her in a bloody grave to make me realize what a consummate arse I was being about every single fucking thing in my life." He wiped his eyes with his fingertips.

Robbie reached over and pressed his hand to James's shoulder. "But—Chloe Brooks. You broke that case. Dottore de la Peste."

James smiled, rueful. "By then, I had stopped all medication. I was trying hypnotherapy for pain, for quitting smoking. I was rowing every morning because I wasn't sleeping. It was—fuck, it was something to occupy my mind— a puzzle."

"Here I was, thinking it was something to do with me."

"It did, it was. I needed to make it up to you, to Laura. And I—I needed to be distracted. You were, I mean, you are my distraction. But this pain, it comes and goes—"

"Like remission?"

"A bit, yeah. But it never goes completely away. I always feel something. It's like an annoying hum that gets louder at times. A searing sensation that goes from blazing hot to ice cold. Sometimes it reaches my hand. My fingers tremble and lose their strength. It makes everything a challenge when that happens. Sometimes—" His voice seemed to break, but he recovered. "—sometimes I can't even play my guitar, so I've pretty much quit my band."

Was that how Innocent knew about the guitar? Did James tell her? "How much did Innocent know?"

James huffed a sigh. "I had to explain requests for time recently. But I didn't want anyone to know."

"Aw, man. You could have—no, you should have told me."

"What could you do? I've been to neurologists, rheumatologists. Even went to a faith healer once." James joked. "For just a hundred quid I could have the good sister lay her hands on my arm and the pain would be gone for a fortnight. She was willing to give me an appointment every other Thursday and a discounted rate."

"You run her in?"

"Well, that's why we were there in the first place—answering a complaint. So I cautioned her. She's moved on." James was quiet. "But I can understand. The condition can become bilateral over time, which is terrifying. Bad enough to have it on one side. Stress exacerbates it. Cold weather. Touch. Pressure. Air currents. Sometimes I wonder if the phases of the moon make it better or worse. Sunspots."

"Now you're taking the piss."

"I never know, though, Robbie, how I will feel from day to day. I have days, weeks, sometimes, where I feel fine. Then the pain comes back. No rhyme or reason to it. I've tried tracking it. Food, alcohol intake, activities, temperature, stress level, pain levels—my life reduced to a fucking chart on my mobile."

How had James been able to hide it from everyone? _Do I take the man so much for granted that I can't see when he's in pain? Or has he become so adept at covering things up that I noticed but didn't want to confront him about it because I was afraid of what he might say?_

"The prognosis for this condition is bleak," James mused. "Alcoholism, depression, even suicide is fairly common, as is divorce, abandonment. Madness, even. A great many people become addicted to one thing or another because the level of intervention required to stabilize the condition is cost-prohibitive. I've tried alternative medicine, alternating cold and hot baths, massage therapy, aromatherapy, psychotherapy, physio, occupational therapy: not all of it is covered under the NHS. I even tried walking the Camino hoping God would cure me and I didn't make it to the cathedral because of the pain. You once said I needed someone. Well, I could never subject anyone to this."

"Is that why you have a lawyer? Work-related injury."

"Yeah. Except I'm not sure how all of that will work. I'm not even sure he's still practicing law, to be honest." James closed his eyes again. "Technically, you had taken me off the case at Crevecoeur the same morning I was shot. Innocent has no record of the paperwork, however. Now I know--I know--that the paperwork was submitted because I wrote it up myself and put it on her desk."

"What?" _I never told him I took the papers…_

"I—I honestly thought I could convince Scarlett not to go through with the marriage." He inhaled and held his breath. "I thought—well, I don't know what I thought. I was a dolt."

 _Christ._ "I took it off her desk, James. Went in to talk with Innocent before I left and she hadn't been in all afternoon. She never even saw it."

"Well. Good to know." James closed his eyes and huffed a laugh. "I always wondered why you pushed me to keep going to physio—"

"You were injured in the line of duty. You would have been able to go as long as necessary."

"But I never consulted the Police Federation representative because I thought I had been removed from duty. All this time."

"Do you think it affected how you recovered…" Even as he spoke, Robbie could see that yes, that was exactly what James had thought. But he had never said a word.

And Robbie had never told him about those papers.

"I've been reluctant, truly reluctant, to even consider litigation, because I knew the hazards of the job, but I can't go on like this. And now—knowing that I was shot while on duty—I'm definitely going to pursue recompense for on-going treatment. It's not the cost of medication—it's the cost of physio and massage and experimental therapy and I cannot do this anymore. I'm afraid my actions might hurt someone. Or my inaction."

A light went on for Robbie. "The Lawrie case. You weren't there for Lizzie. That's what this is about, isn't it?"

A single tear slid from the corner of James's eye. He wiped it using his good arm. "I wasn't. I wanted to be, God, I wanted to be, but I couldn't be there for her, for you--I couldn't—"

"There was no way, no way, none—you hear me?—that you could've known—" Robbie half-sat up, his voice rising, ready to take James to task.

"Keep your voice down," James said, miserably. "I know. But I wasn't functioning nearly as well as I needed to be for any of the cases I've had in the past two months. Innocent thinks it's the stress of the job, and it is, but it's also because I cannot take the medication I need for pain. If anything was called into question and it was discovered that I was on that type of medication it could ruin a case."

"No one would question your expertise on an investigation, James. Yes, some of us have noticed that you're sharp with colleagues, questioning witnesses. Suspects. It's not like you. Should have said something. Should have trusted me."

"I know my behavior has been intolerable. But I had to be clear headed, understand. I wasn't taking anything, not a bloody thing."

Robbie sighed: his heart ached so much for the man that it hurt to breathe. "So when did you give in and start up with your medication again?"

"Work was quiet, for once. A few days. I thought if I could break the pain response cycle, I'd be fine. I started up on the pills again, but they weren't helping. I took more. And then everything went to shit. Innocent announced that she was leaving, you were reassigned, murder-suicide at Blenheim." He chewed the corner of his lip. "And I was told by my GP that if I wanted to continue taking pain medication then I needed to attend one of these pain management programs."

"So you're just here to get more pain pills." Right. Well, he needed them, but Robbie was going to bloody well make sure that James finished the course this time. Whatever the treatment, however long it took, Robbie would make sure that this time James Hathaway completed every bloody second. "And you're going to complete the program. We'll both do it."

"I can't ask you to do that."

"Not asking me. I'm telling you, James. We're doing this together. And this time you're going to finish it. You're going to get better if it kills me."

"Defeats the purpose, don't you think?"

Robbie gave him a sour look.

"I appreciate it, Robbie. You and your family." James turned his head away, staring at his bad arm outstretched on the bed beside him. "Sometimes it progresses…" he said, inhaling deeply, as if trying to maintain control, "so that your body no longer manufactures tears." he whispered. "You can no longer cry from pain… or for the…anguish you've caused to the people you care about."

Robbie put his hand firmly on James's good forearm. "Not going anywhere, man." He reached over and turned off the light on the bedside table because he couldn't bear to see James cry.

+++


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tremendous thanks to the amazing Wendymr for Brit-pick, beta, and comma wrangling. :-) Any errors that remain are mine.

"Did he sleep? Did you sleep?" Lyn kissed Robbie on the cheek and pushed him towards the table. "Look who's here, Jack!"

"Mum said Uncle James is here, too."

Robbie raised his eyebrows. _Uncle James, is it? Hope he's in a fit state to hear that bit of good news._ Their last visit had been less than stellar, mostly because Jack had asked so many questions about Aunt Laura and why this strange bloke that everyone said he should remember from when he was little was sleeping on the downstairs couch. And now, come to think of it, Robbie wondered how comfortable James had been, sleeping on that couch in the notoriously cold lounge during that last visit. He must have been in agony, though he never said a word.

"Corn flakes? No fry up for company?" Robbie asked. He'd been looking forward to a good breakfast since he'd been up half the night trying to sleep without waking James. Kept a good amount of space between them, too, so he wouldn't make the man uncomfortable.

Watched him sleeping, too. Watched the way his face eased, soft and peaceful, the tense lines between his eyebrows almost disappearing. He hadn't seen it that way in ages. He tracked the progress of the moon across the sky, its pale light coming through the curtains and playing out on James's features throughout the night.

"Look at the time, Dad," said Lyn. "Have to get Jack to school, drop Tim at work. If you want a proper breakfast, there are eggs and sausages in the fridge. Otherwise, yeah, corn flakes."

Tim came into the kitchen carrying two travel mugs which he rinsed in the sink. "There's plenty of coffee." He filled the mugs and then filled Robbie's cup on the table. Jack looked up from his corn flakes.

"Ta. James brought his coffee machine." Robbie offered up this piece of information more for something to say than anything else.

"Well, he's staying in town. Two weeks, yeah, Lyn?" Tim sipped his brew and helped himself to the other half of Lyn's toast. "Just remind him not to smoke or have anything to eat or drink this morning. He said his first appointment is in an hour, too, so you may want to get him up and into the shower. His car is still at Salford in the car park. He probably has some sort of instructions about bathing—no lotion or deodorant and that sort of thing. Did you put that antibacterial soap in the shower, Lyn?"

"Yeah, 'course." She finished making Jack's lunch, setting it on the table with a thump. "Put that away now, Jackie. Thank God he's not getting a lumbar puncture—just the back of the neck. They don't even shave them anymore—less risk of infection. Dad, you want me to make you a sandwich for the waiting room?"

"No need, pet. Anything I can do to help?" If James was going to be hungry, Robbie could be hungry too. Afterwards they'd have a nice meal. He'd take everyone out to dinner that night, celebrate a successful result. Yes, it was important to keep positive about this.

"Nope. Just make yourselves comfortable if you get back before we get home." Lyn handed him a key, set down her cup and left the kitchen.

"Shaving caused microscopic cuts. All this time they believed they were doing no harm, making it cleaner somehow by shaving." Tim clapped Robbie on the shoulder as he followed Lyn out of the kitchen.

Robbie cringed. He truly did not need to hear about blood and infections or procedures over the breakfast table. Though he imagined he'd been the same way, come to think of it, talking about his work and the various ways a person could take a human life. Took his appetite clean away to hear it at the breakfast table, though. "So," he said in a hearty voice to Jack, "what are you learning about today in school?"

"We're learning about how the body works, like blood and stuff. Mum says that Aunt Laura cuts up dead bodies for a living."

Robbie nodded, gobsmacked at what was covered for youngsters in school these days. And that reminded him of another thing: he'd have to call Laura let her know about finding James. And that she was now an honorary aunt.

+++

"Please don't ask how I'm feeling." James stood beside Robbie's chair in the waiting area. "I nearly punched the technician doing the nerve conduction study."

"You—" Robbie was going to pooh-pooh the statement, but then he caught the set of James's jaw. All right, then. "It had to hurt. Electrical current going through a needle."

He'd read about the test, borrowing James's laptop to have something to do while he waited. Read about the condition they were testing for. He was formulating a game plan.

They'd beat this. It was a problem and they'd solve it together. Just like solving a crime. Nothing to it.

James sighed, his hand coming up to rub the upper part of his bad arm. Robbie saw it now, had been seeing it for so long that he'd become used to it, the way James folded his arms or held himself or pressed that side against door jambs and walls, applying pressure. He saw, too, the fine tremor in James's fingers on that side and watched as James put both hands then into his trouser pockets to hide it.

He'd been doing that, too, for an age: putting his hands into his pockets. Wearing long sleeves to keep the wind from his arm. Never seemed to sweat.

It all fit.

"So what was the thermography test like?"

"Sheer joy," James said sarcastically. He took his hands from his pockets and slumped into a chair. "You heard that I couldn't have coffee or cigarettes? Three days without both, Robbie. Except for a puff or two yesterday after Torquemada jabbed me with a needle. When Lyn pulled up, I was—did she tell you I nearly cried when I saw her? I was bloody grateful. Tim was home and took one look at me, broke out his bag of tricks to calm me down. I think I scared Jack."

"He didn't seem worse for wear this morning."

James was silent, and then: "As soon as they do the spinal, I'm going to smoke half a pack and drink a pot of espresso."

"Not if I have anything to say about it."

James smiled slightly. "I'll creep out in the middle of the night to satisfy my cravings." He settled back into the waiting room chair, the upper portion of his bad arm pressed against Robbie's shoulder.

"Does pressure help?"

"It does, for a short while." He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say more, and then seemed to decide on a shy smile instead.

 _Maybe that's the real reason we've always sat so close together,_ Robbie thought. Warmth, comfort. No, couldn't be that was the only reason. But he hadn't seen that smile in a while either, and he liked seeing James light up a bit.

James glanced at his watch. "Initially the thermography test wasn't bad. The room where they do it is warm. It's challenging to undress and to put on a hospital gown, though. The technician takes infrared images. I'll be completely cataloged at this rate with all the scans. Bones, body, brain." He blew out a breath. "After the baseline images, they performed what they euphemistically call an 'assessment of the autonomic nervous system's peripheral vasoconstrictor reflex.'"

Robbie frowned. It didn't sound good. Not at all.

"It's a stress test. They immersed the affected limb in cold water—bloody cold water—and took infrared images. The temperature in a normal limb lowers over time."

"And?"

"It was—unpleasant. I won't receive the results until the end of the week." James shrugged. "But my arm remained warm. I could see the diagnostic screen. It was like being stung by thousands of bees."

"Oww." Robbie's face scrunched up. "Just from water?"

James shrugged a shoulder.

"Oh, James." Robbie wanted to reach out, wanted to touch him, wanted to provide some comfort, but he couldn't think of a single place he could touch without sending James through the bloody roof. Finally, he held open his hand and placed it on James's right thigh, palm up, and waited.

James clasped Robbie's hand and stared at the odd way their hands were joined. "Reminds me of Dian Fossey for some reason. Gentling the gorillas."

"Daft sod. I don't know how to touch you to make you feel better."

"Just knowing you want to touch me makes me feel better," James whispered, squeezing Robbie's hand before letting go.

+++

"Mr. Lewis?" The nurse stood at the door of the waiting area. "I can take you back—Mr. Hathaway is in recovery."

This was unexpected. Robbie was under the impression that only family could go back, but maybe the rules were different here. The Salford Royal was a research institution first and foremost. Maybe they had figured out that people do better with whatever support system they liked. Certainly seemed nicer than any hospital he'd been in recently. Research funding, no doubt.

James's bed was curtained off from the rest of the recovery area. He was lying flat on his back, no pillow, the blankets tucked firmly over his arms, pinioning them to his sides. His eyes were at half-mast.

"He's not to move his head yet, so you'll need to stand over him so that he can see you." The nurse leaned forward, confidentially. "He was a bit agitated coming out of the anesthesia, but he's doing better now. Heart rate's good, Mr. Hathaway. Are you warm enough?"

"Yes, thank you."

Robbie was taken aback. James's voice was back to normal. It hadn't been that low, that much of a baritone purr, in ages. It had risen slightly in pitch so gradually that Robbie hadn't even noticed.

"Do they think it helped? You sound better, more relaxed."

"I'm on so many narcotics I'm surprised I can utter a coherent sentence. Think Innocent will let me solve cases in this state? It's bliss."

"Sure. We'll wheel you about just like this." Robbie grinned, looking down at James. He had a sudden irrational impulse to kiss the man's forehead, and he huffed a laugh. Seeing the man's cropped blond head pale against a white sheet brought to mind the same notion he'd stifled years ago. "Not often I have you helpless like this."

"Don't tickle me. It's contraindicated." James smiled fondly. "I can't feel a thing beneath my neck, Robbie. It's wonderful and frightening at the same time."

Whereupon Robbie bent close, paused, and looked around. They were alone, so he said very quietly, "Then I'm going to kiss you on the forehead. That okay?"

"Sure."

Robbie wondered in passing if he was taking advantage since it was unlikely that James would remember it, but he didn't think James would mind. Probably would think it was funny. He kissed James gently and smiled at the way James's eyes sparkled. "Could you feel that?"

"Right to my toes. Could you check my toes? I think my toes are curling."

Robbie beamed at him. "Soft thing."

"I think you may be my answer to drugs, Robbie."

"Just what every copper wants to hear."

"You could clean up Oxford by bestowing kisses on criminal's foreheads." James smiled and closed his eyes.

It was then that Robbie knew why he'd needed to kiss James, why it was vital that he and James share a sweet, warm moment.

It was because the last man that Robbie had kissed on the forehead had been Morse, who'd been lying in the morgue.

Robbie had cared for him.

And Morse never knew.

++++

"He seems fine, Laura, at least so far. Not sure how long the effect will last, but he's hopeful. Yes, of course I'll give him a kiss from you."

"You already did." James said, dreamily.

"Didn't think you'd remember that." Robbie rang off. "That was from me. Hers is another thing altogether."

James closed his eyes. "Can't begin to compare with yours, though. It was…magical."

He was sitting up on the bed waiting for the neurology technician to do another assessment before they released him. He was all sleepy smiles for a moment and then his eyes opened, clear and bright. Happy.

_It's been an age since he's smiled like that, Robbie realized. His easy-going smile. Not the shy one he shows me from time to time, but the genuine article. The one where he's all lit up from the inside. Haven't seen or heard him this relaxed in I don't know how long. Is he high? He didn't look careworn or angry. Is that why people look angry? Because they're in pain? No, for the first time in months, really, James seemed himself._

"I've missed you," Robbie blurted.

James's eyes widened, as if he was pleased. "I feel like myself again. I've missed me, too."

+++

Robbie was thankful Jack had grown out of "eating out means pizza" stage because he really wanted to treat Tim and Lyn for their kindness in opening their home to James. And he wanted to treat James, too, since he had a feeling that this was a moment of respite on what was to be a long journey.

He wanted it to be special. Sapporo Teppanyaki. A kid-friendly enough restaurant to have crayons and entertaining enough to have knives and flames as the chefs worked in front of each table making Japanese food to order.

"I bet you do this all the time," Lyn said with a twinkle in her eye. "I remember you taking Mum out—once a month, like clockwork, and warning us not to answer the phone in case it was Morse. We were old enough by that time to be on our own, though Mark was a terror."

"Heard from him lately?" Robbie kept his voice light, casual. He heard from his son at Christmas and on his birthday, twice a year. Like clockwork.

"Aw, Dad." Lyn covered his hand with her own and leaned across him to address James, who was coloring a children's menu with Jack, "James, won't you go with Dad to see Mark? I can't take the time, but the two of you should have loads of free time once Dad retires again."

Robbie forced a smile. That was it, then. He hadn't thought about it, but if James was ill, he would have to leave police work. And Robbie should retire again, too. He'd have to, if only to help James take care of himself. Running off without a word to anyone, the man needed a bloody minder. A settlement might give him access to medical care. _But a carer won't get him like I do. Like as not he'd get a carer who'd hear him fretting in Latin and think they were being cursed. No, I need to be with him._

A shadow crossed James's face, passing only when Robbie said, "Well, if James would like that, then we'll go. 'Course we will. Australia's nice and warm. Dry. Bit like Spain that way." He met James's eyes. "I'd like you to know my son because even though he's a bit of a git, he's my git, and I love him just the same."

"Oh, James, you'll love Australia—" Lyn began, and then jumped as if she'd been kicked under the table.

Robbie raised an eyebrow, wondering what his daughter's partner was up to.

She shot Tim an accusing glance. He raised an eyebrow, his gaze flickering to James, and then he rolled his eyes.

Lyn responded by closing her own eyes and sighing as if to say, 'You're absolutely right, how stupid of me!'

Robbie suppressed a grin, remembering the holiday when he'd taught his kids how coppers communicate without words. He glanced at James, grateful that he'd missed the visual interplay, because he'd taught James the same skill. He supposed that Lyn had taught Tim. Whole silent conversation going on there between the two of them.

James glanced up. "Sorry?"

"Dad, look! It's Mrs. Fitzwarren! Oh, she's just leaving—let's see if we can catch her outside. I'm sure she'd love to see you!" Lyn leaped up and began making her way to the restaurant exit.

Who the blue blazes is Mrs. Fitzwarren, Robbie wondered, getting up to follow. He was half-way across the room when he remembered. Mrs. Fitzwarren was their family's excuse. You could leave the table, or confer out of earshot, or get out of any bad situation all by invoking the imaginary Mrs. Fitzwarren. 'Can't go to the dance with you, we have to visit Mrs. Fitzwarren.' 'Some other time, really—it's Mrs. Fitzwarren's birthday, right Mum?' Or, like now, Mrs. Fitzwarren has left the building—time to have a chat outside.

"Haven't thought of Mrs. Fitzwarren in an age," Robbie said as he followed Lyn out of the restaurant.

"Sorry. It's just that I put my foot in it, Dad, Tim reminded me not to talk too much about traveling. When Laura was here, the two of you went on and on about seeing the world and I wanted you to know that it might not be all that comfortable for James. Traveling, I mean."

"No one likes taking a twenty-two hour aeroplane ride, pet, even with a stop in Singapore."

"It's not just that, though. A lot of people with pain management problems find it awful to fly between the cabin pressure and dryness and being crushed, not to mention standing in queues and medication and—I just don't want him to feel bad, Dad. He knows you want to travel and he may not be able to and I don't think he knows yet. That's all. So."

"That's why we had to say hello to Mrs. Fitzwarren. Okay, then." Robbie gave his daughter a one-armed hug, kissing the top of her head. "You all like James," he observed. "I'm glad."

"Of course we do! He's lovely. We all like Laura, too, but she was more of a friend. When you're around James, though, you both light up. I thought I'd be upset, y'know, but I was more upset by Laura, to tell you the truth, because she's a woman. James is, well, James, I guess. He's his own species or something."

"Yeah, that sums him up," Robbie chuckled, opening the door for her as they went back inside. He gave a slight shake of his head, wondering if he should be worried that he and James seemed to light each other up. 'Course she must have meant that he and James wind each other up, as mates do.

"How was Mrs. Fitzwarren?" Jack asked, feigning innocence. The lad would never be an actor. He was playing this up as a game and it showed, grinning and smirking. His father shot him a glance.

"Just fine, Jackie." Lyn's voice was a warning, too.

Poor lad's face went red. "I hate it when she calls me that," Jack muttered, scribbling fiercely.

"I know what you mean. My mum called me Jamie until I asked her not to. Mums are good listeners, though." James continued coloring without looking up at anyone, his cheeks going faintly pink as if he was embarrassed for being caught on the kid's side and perhaps for reminiscing. "I expect if you tell your mum you don't like something, she'd listen."

"Mum, 'Jackie' is a girl in my class." Jack wriggled, to sit straighter in his seat. He glanced up, a challenge.

"Well, then, I'll try to remember not to call you that," Lyn said seriously. "Tim?"

"Me too, mate. Though," Tim whispered conspiratorially, "I never called you 'Jackie', not even once. I wanted to name you Aloysius after my dog."

"That's a stupid name."

"That's what your mum said, too." Tim grinned at his son.

The chef working at the grill in front of their table chose that moment to set something on fire and the flames shot up in a great whoosh as everyone exclaimed.

Robbie turned to look at James and saw the light from the flames reflected in James's eyes. And he could see that light from within. It was suddenly very hot and Robbie knew it had very little to do with the cooking demonstration in front of them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Wendymr for Brit-pick and beta. Any errors that remain are mine.

"I like your family."

"They like you," Robbie answered. "Speaking of family, nice of the Salford to allow friends as well as family to be in recovery."

James was standing with his back to Robbie, slowly taking off his shirt. Robbie turned away, not sure if the sudden intimacy of shirt removal was because James was comfortable with his presence or was too afraid of hurting his arm and perhaps needing help. When he turned back to look at the progress, he saw James's shoulders hunch in as a baggy long-sleeved shirt was gingerly pulled into place.

"When I filled in the paperwork this morning, I listed you as my partner." His back was to Robbie.

"Good. They should know that someone at the nick is looking out for you," Robbie said heartily.

"Not that sort of partner." James turned away. "It wasn't a lie as much as it was a—" James sighed. "—a wish."

Robbie's eyes widened.

"That we were still work partners," James went on hurriedly. He picked up his discarded shirt and folded it.

"You—you said we were partners so that I could get in to see you." Some of the pieces were falling into place. James knew he would worry—of course he would worry!—and he'd set it up to make sure they were together after the procedure. "There was a risk, then, with what you had done today."

James nodded and huffed a sigh. "Needle in the spinal cord, yeah. It can't be done often because of scarring."

Robbie took in James's arms, folded tightly across his body, as he stood awaiting judgement. Robbie wasn't going to retire as a detective, far from it. Since it looked like James would be keeping things from him, he'd have to do his own research on these procedures. Figure it out. Set up an incident board. He rubbed the tension from the back of his neck and dropped his hand with a sigh. James had lied—had lied!—on a form so Robbie could be with him.

_He'd only listed me as his partner to keep me from worrying about him. Or to keep me from badgering the hospital staff to see him. Best mates look out for one another, that's all._

"I'll change the paperwork in the morning." James gave him a mild look.

"No, it's fine." Robbie said, dryly, "We're sharing a bed. I hope we're partners of one sort or another."

James managed a half smile. "I didn't want a legal firm listed as my next of kin. Didn't want my father or my sister, either."

His father and his sister? He has a sister? "That so?"

"Don't look surprised." James smiled faintly. "I had to come from somewhere."

"Thought you sprang from Zeus's noggin."

James arched an eloquent eyebrow.

"Oi, Athena, I know. But intelligence and wisdom, suit of armor. Seemed to fit. And I just didn't think of you with a sister. Never mentioned her."

"We're not close. And you rarely talk about your brother."

Oh. "We're not close either. Never kept him a secret, though."

James waved a dismissive hand. "You've never asked about my family."

"Respected your privacy. Not like you're forthcoming about anything." Robbie gestured vaguely. "Case in point." He turned away from James and caught the reflection of his movement in the long mirror propped against the wall. "Need to work on your noodle."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Re-training your brain, man."

"Not necessary. I feel fine. The anesthetic worked." James stretched out his arm and put his hand on Robbie's shoulder. "See? Absolutely no pain. I'm thinking we might head back to Oxford tomorrow instead of going to the workshop, to free up a spot for someone who needs it."

Robbie bit back a rejoinder and said calmly, "Let's keep that in mind for the morning, then. In the meantime, humor me, would you, and get onto the bed? Five minutes?"

James squeezed the spot on Robbie's shoulder. "No pain in my arm, Robbie. My hand is fine." He didn't let go.

From the corner of his eye, Robbie could see the faintest tremor in the little finger of James's hand as it rested on Robbie's shoulder. "Five minutes, James."

James took a step closer, his hand moving across Robbie's shoulder to the side of his neck as if he wanted to grab him and shake him. "I'm fine." And then he did give him a little shake for emphasis, but he didn't let go.

"Glad to hear it. Get onto the bloody bed." Robbie tensed beneath James's hand. He wanted to shrug it off, but he sensed that if he did, all of the bluster and denial in the man would leave him in one great whoosh. James had expected the spinal to work. And it had.

But it hadn't lasted nearly long enough.

The only way to make sure that it worked the next time was to adjust the dose. And the only way to ensure that there would be a next time to adjust the dose and continue treatment was to do the pain management course. Robbie reached up and mirrored James's position. He put his hand almost to the back of James's neck and he took a step closer to the man.

There was something like doubt in James's eyes: not fear, not expectation. Just worry and sadness and resignation.

"Aw, James." They were close enough to each other that Robbie could touch James's forehead with his own. So he did. And for a moment they stood like that, sharing each other's breaths, though their lips never touched. "For me. Will you do it for me?"

James nodded against him and seemed to pull away by sheer force of will. He didn't seem to want to. And Robbie didn't want him to, either, but it was the bargain they had made for each other.

Robbie gripped the edge of the mirror and placed it on James's prone form. "Just five minutes. And then you can get your beauty sleep."

James snorted.

+++

Robbie was sitting with the other patients' family members and carers in a too-cold classroom listening to a lecture on why pain occurs. He yawned and hoped James's experience as a patient was more entertaining. Listening to this woman was like watching paint dry.

After a few minutes of assessing the needs of the group, the lecturer had launched into her talk by trying to tailor the information presented to the illnesses and conditions suffered by the patients. Cancer and arthritis, mostly, and one case each of fibromyalgia, diabetic neuropathy, and chronic regional pain syndrome.

The lecturer lumped those last three conditions together since they were nerve disorders rather than illnesses of joints, bones, or organs. No one knew much about them—there were only a few newer drugs available being used off-label in the UK to treat the pain from these conditions.

And James had been in pain that morning. Not bad pain, he had insisted, but it was evident from the way he favored his arm that he was reluctant to bend it. His hand kept finding its way to his pocket. He had poured his coffee with one hand, while Robbie held his breath, thinking that the cup would overturn on the counter.

It had been hard for Robbie to see the resigned set of the other man's jaw, the way his mouth thinned. The misery in his eyes—and the fear. James had been convinced that the spinal had done the trick.

Lyn had noticed too and would probably have said something if Tim hadn't pushed her and Jack out the door with a hurried goodbye, leaving Robbie and James sleep-deprived and bleary-eyed, staring at each other across the table and not saying a bloody word.

'--Motor neurone disease," the lecturer was saying, and Robbie was startled completely awake. "So there may be a genetic proclivity to myelin sheath damage based on DNA expression on select protein strands. Pharmaceutical research is on-going for causes of chronic regional pain syndrome."

Robbie felt his mobile vibrate and hazarded a covert glance. Innocent again. She hadn't been happy hearing that she was losing two inspectors for a fortnight, but she had too much to wrap up at the moment to complain, especially since she was on her way out with her promotion and all. When he called in to the nick that morning, she had been happy to hear that James was taking his treatment seriously.

"Tell him that he'd be proud of Lizzie for taking over the Blenheim murder-suicide with Peterson's assistance."

"I will, Ma'am."

"And Robbie? Make sure he completes the program. If he needs to be on medication for pain, we need to accommodate that and I don't want anyone, even for one second, to consider bringing up his competency during a court case. He's too good an officer to worry about that nonsense."

Good, thought Robbie. "I'll let him know, Ma'am."

Wonder why she's calling now, he thought.

He re-focused on the lecture. A photo of a forearm and hand, the skin a vivid shade of blue-ish red, was displayed. The hand was bent and curled at an impossible angle; the caption read: Dystonia in Chronic Regional Pain Syndrome.

Robbie's stomach lurched as he thought of James's long fingers curled into disuse. He barely made it out of the room before he vomited.

+++

"Are you supposed to be eating that?" Robbie asked, looking at James's plate during the lunch break between sessions. "Never mind. Sorry." He sipped his coffee slowly. He took a single bite of his sandwich and slid the plate aside.

James raised an eyebrow. "It hadn't really occurred to me how difficult this would be for you, too."

Robbie huffed a sigh and raised his cup. "Difficult? No-o-o-o. Biggest problem I'm going to have is making sure you take good care of yourself."

"I am an adult." James was drinking coffee too. And he had a plate with crisps, a muffin, and a sandwich of some sort with white bread.

He wasn't eating any of it either.

"No fruit today?"

"No, mother. No fruit." James pursed his lips. He laced his hands and leaned forward. "This is comfort food. I ache. Once I am immersed in the benefits of this delightful program with its promised pain relief, I will foreswear white flour and processed foods. Until then—" He opened the bag of crisps. "—I will eat what I like." He shook the bag at Robbie, an offering.

"You don't even like this." Robbie took a crisp.

"I know," James said miserably. He sighed and set the bag aside. "What I'd really like is soup."

"We're supposed to stay at the hotel tonight. Are you up for cooking for the family, maybe make Val's recipe for lentil soup? We could eat dinner and then head over to our room."

A slow smile spread across James's face. "Yes. Please, let's. We could leave now to start the soup and I could bake some bread—"

Robbie laid a hand on his good arm and squeezed reassuringly. "I know a good bakery. Session ends mid-afternoon, we can pick up what we need on the way back and have plenty of time to make dinner."

"Thank you." James gave him a fond look. "I feel better already."

+++

"It's a hotel, for chrissake. So we brought our own mirror. Acting like they'd never seen one before." Robbie awkwardly held the mirror by the short end.

James punched the button in the lift. "I need to reimburse Lyn and Tim—"

"Done."

"Then I need to reimburse you."

"And you will. But let's get in first. I'm knackered. Jack's a handful. Reminds me of Mark at that age." Robbie opened the door and stared at the one large bed in the room. He dropped his bag and set the mirror against the wall.

James stood uncertainly in the doorway. "Are you sure about this? I could get another room."

"Might look a little odd, don't you think? Two rooms?" Robbie had convinced James not to change the paperwork at the hospital. If James had another procedure of any sort, he wanted to be there for him. It was just until the end of the program. "It's fine. Partners, remember? Says so on that form. Unless you're uncomfortable—"

"I'm fine."

"Well, then." Robbie went into the en-suite and took in the accommodations made for disabilities and wondered if all of the rooms engaged by the hospital were so equipped. He finished up, washed his hands—anti-bacterial soap, he noticed—and came out to find James already in his pyjamas.

"It was good of Lyn to take care of my guitar."

"She's hoping you'll play it for them before we head back to Oxford."

James gave him a faint smile. "I hope so, too." He rubbed his hands on the tops of his thighs.

"How are your hands?"

"Fine."

Robbie shook his head. He picked up his bag and rummaged for the small bottle of massage oil that Tim had made up for them. "Let's see what Tim concocted. Smells good." He passed the bottle to James. "Have a whiff."

James made an approving noise. There was a desk area in the room. He sat down and took out the medication bottles he'd been given that afternoon. "Latest additions."

"Oh." Robbie rubbed his chin. They'd talked about this during the afternoon lecture: don't infantilize the patient. But, Christ, he needed to know, didn't he? Helping to keep the man on track and all. "Mind if I ask—"

"Yeah, a bit."

Okay, then. Well. _But why bring them out so that I can see them if he didn't want me to ask about them?_ "Any side effects I should know about? Spontaneous combustion, that sort of thing?"

James smirked.

"Could wait till you're asleep and then use your laptop, I suppose, consult the internet. Might be easier, though, if you told me."

"I'd like to see you get into my laptop."

"Oh, would you, now?" Robbie grinned at him. "I have Gurdip's number right here…"

"I'm all right. Really."

Robbie took a deep breath, trying to put himself in James's place. He could see the names of the medication and—well, that one did have side effects. They'd covered it briefly in lecture today with a promise to cover it in depth tomorrow, though it was common knowledge that anti-depressants of that sort did a bloke in when it came to activities in the bedroom.

But he'd been on them before, so it couldn't be that. And why was Robbie thinking about James's ability to perform in bed to begin with? James was ill, for chrissake. It was all of this closeness, that was what it was, nothing more.

From his suitcase, James took out a sheet of paper folded in quarters. A crudely drawn white truck with a large red cross on it was parked beside a stick figure man with a squiggly guitar of sorts in one hand; he was lying in the street, a large pool of red coming from his arm. "Jack's creative."

"Gruesome, more like. Don't know where he gets it."

"Nice thought, though. 'Get well soon and don't die yet.' Think it says it all." With a faint smile, James propped up the card against the lamp on the desk.

"It does." Robbie shook his head. He was pleased, though, that his daughter and her brood had accepted James as part of the family and that they had made him a project of sorts. What pleased him even more was that James was letting them do so without making too much of a fuss.

"I thought I'd read a bit."

"I thought I'd rub your arm first and then I'd put that mirror to use that I hauled up here."

James sighed heavily. "I don't see the point. After all, a spinal anesthetic didn't work."

"But massage did, at least for an evening. And the mirror thing takes time and practice to work." Robbie settled on the edge of the bed. He couldn't understand why James was protesting now—he'd been comfortable at the house. Been happy, in fact, up until a few minutes ago. Until he pulled out his medication.

So, was it that the painkillers didn't work? Was it the anti-depressants that set him thinking? What, that he was sad and needed them to feel better? Or was it the side effects?

And why the bloody hell was James even thinking—no, he couldn't be thinking about the sexual side effects of a medication he needed to take to get this thing under control. Had to be something else.

Robbie took in the ramrod straight back, the way James's hands rested on the keyboard of the laptop. No tremors. No terrible pain, then. But his neck and face were tinged pink and he was fixated on the BBC World News screen, though even from here Robbie could see there was nothing whatsoever to warrant that amount of attention.

James was embarrassed, it seemed. About what, Robbie had no idea. But he was tired, he expected that James was tired, too, and he was determined that they keep up their nightly routine.

He didn't want to think about what would happen if they didn't. The photo from the lecture made him adamant.

He patted the bed beside him. "James. Let's get it over with, and then…"

The look James gave him was blistering.

"What I meant was that…Christ. I just want to go to sleep."

"No one is stopping you."

Robbie rubbed the back of his neck and dropped his hand. "I meant that I want to rub your arm. I want to help with the mirror exercises. I want to help you. And then I want to go to sleep."

"It's not necessary. It won't help."

"It will or Tim wouldn't have recommended doing it." He tried to think of another tack. "Lyn would never forgive me—"

"Please don't use your family that way, Robbie, it demeans us both."

"Then think of your job, man. You need to get better, you need to complete this thing otherwise you can't work."

James took a deep breath. "I don't want to go back."

"What?"

"I don't want to go back."

"Aw, man, you want to go back. You want to get better. And you want to do the exercises. Christ, this is the kind of fight people have when they are months into this."

"I've been in this for years, Robbie. This is my life."

"And mine, too, now."

"Doesn't have to be. You can walk out that door—"

Robbie stared at him. "What the hell are you on about? Leave you? Are you out of your mind? You're my best friend, we're partners, for chrissake, and you want me to leave? James—has it occurred to you that I don't want to go? That I bloody well care and—it's not pity, no, don't give me that look. You know that I care, right? I'm not leaving. Not like this. When you're better, if you want me to go, then I will. But not until you're better."

"Long time to spend in hell."

"At least I'll have you for company."

James came over and sat beside him on the bed, his shoulder pressed against Robbie's. "Sorry."

Robbie put his hand on James's thigh, palm up. James took his hand.

"This," James said, squeezing his hand. His jaw worked, but he couldn't look at Robbie.

Robbie squeezed back. "I know. Let's lay you down and take care of the arm, first." He gave James space to get out of his shirt—didn't look like he needed help to get it off since he had put it on himself. He pushed the duvet to the edge of the bed, and stretched out on his stomach.

Robbie put some of Tim's massage oil on his hands. "If your back isn't bothering you, maybe you should be on your back so we can do the mirror exercises right after."

James flopped over and pulled the duvet up to his waist, leaving his chest exposed.

"Cold? I can turn up the heat."

James shook his head slightly.

Robbie sat with his flank pressed against James's side, his arm stretched across his lap. It wasn't the best position, but it allowed him to see James's reactions to pressure as he moved his hands. The scar from the bullet was a small white knot of indented flesh that Robbie approached cautiously, his thumbs barely pressing against it.

"It's often the smallest injuries that cause this disorder," James said reflectively. "Some people are tortured by a pinprick. I don't even remember it hurting all that much. I just remember being relieved that you weren't hurt." The words that followed were almost a whisper. "And that you wanted me to keep on."

"Well, like I said then: between the two of us we make one good detective. And I know you don't want to go. Got to see your sergeant become an inspector." Robbie felt the other man's muscles begin to soften. "Next generation. You're doing well, mentoring her. Lizzie's holding her own against Peterson, according to Innocent. And Innocent is expecting you and me back in a fortnight."

"I don't want Innocent to leave," James said softly. "Although she was too focused on how other people perceived the nick, she was compassionate all the same. I doubt we'll be as lucky with the new super. Shouldn't bother me, but it does."

Privately, Robbie agreed, but all he continued to do was dig his hands into the—biceps, was it? He'd have to learn the muscles and nerves. "What am I rubbing here? What muscle?"

"I—shit, I don't remember. But it feels good." James's eyes were closed. "You all right?"

 _I am leaning across your bare chest, running my hands up and down your arm, and each time I do so, you make a sigh that goes straight to my heart and reminds me that I am too bloody old for this foolishness. No, I'm not all right._ "I'm okay." He continued massaging, remembering, suddenly, that he should have started at the shoulder and worked his way down the arm. He moved his hands to the front of James's shoulder near the man's heart.

James reached over and stopped him by pulling his hand away. "It's all right, really." His cheeks were flushed and he stared at their clasped hands as if wondering how their hands came be joined and resting against his bare chest.

Robbie's mouth was dry. "I think—"

"—Yeah, right. The mirror." James hurriedly released his hand. He sat up a little, pulling on his shirt, and then busying himself with the pillows so that he was flat on his back.

Robbie nodded, feeling the heat in his cheeks. _Bloody hell._ He positioned the mirror so that it stood on its edge the length of James's body. From his vantage point, he could see James moving his good arm up and down. The reflection made it seem as if his bad arm was going up and down as well.

From his vantage point, Robbie could see both arms, but James could not.

"I'm trying to move both arms the same distance from the top of the bed at the same time. How am I doing?"

Robbie could see that James was barely raising the bad arm a few seconds after the other arm. He met James's eyes and smiled encouragement. "You're doing fine, James. Just fine."

+++


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to Wendymr, who Brit-picked and beta'd. She never mentioned correcting the same type of comma error eight times, either. (I was counting, she wasn't.) Any other errors that remain are mine.

Oh, he was going to hate this. The chairs for the morning session were arranged in a circle. The words "Support Group" were written on the whiteboard at the front of the room. Robbie was convinced that if there was a hell, it would be populated with people who wanted him to discuss his feelings. He hadn't wanted to talk about how he felt when Val died, and he sure as hell didn't want to talk about how he felt now. James was seriously, chronically ill—wasn't that enough? What the bloody hell did his feelings matter when he couldn't do a damn thing to fix it?

He thumbed through his mobile, hoping for a missed message from someone, anyone, that would take him out of this room with its chairs that were set up to facilitate sharing and caring.

_Nothing. Bugger._

People came in, snagging chairs at the other end of the circle leaving him across from everyone else, empty chairs on either side of him. Alone. He stood up, pretended to check his mobile, and walked out of the room. James was standing in the corridor, his back to Robbie, and he was having an earnest conversation with one of the doctors. He leaned against the wall, his upper arm pressed against it, and when the doctor said something that made him straighten, he pulled at his bad arm, holding it in a way that was becoming uncomfortably familiar to Robbie.

The doctor looked around James, lifting his chin in a greeting of sorts to Robbie. James half turned and smiled, looking hopeful, as if Robbie could help him escape from whatever he had been called into the hall for. Then Robbie noticed how the knuckles on James's hand had gone white from the pressure of immobilizing that arm.

Worse yet, James saw him noticing, his eyes sweeping over Robbie as if he was just waiting for something like this. The expression on his face changed from hopeful to an inscrutable mask, his lips a tight line.

Robbie shrugged an apology and pointed at the door to the room where everyone was ready to share their feelings.

His heart was breaking.

Right. _Now_ he suddenly felt like talking.

It wasn't—Christ, it wasn't fair, was it? James had gone through so bloody much as a lad—and Robbie knew he didn't even know half of the hell that was Crevecoeur—and he'd seen more than enough pain and suffering as a copper. Did James have to take this on too?

 _When Bad Things Happen to Good People_ was sitting on the night table at the hotel. Written by a rabbi, it was one of the books suggested in the program. Robbie couldn't bear to pick it up. He was too angry at a God he no longer believed in, too angry at James for hiding his illness for years, and too, too angry at himself for not seeing that James was in pain. His best mate. _Aw, Christ._

To put a capper on it, he was ashamed and angry that he was thinking of himself, too, in all this. Wondering what he'd done in a past life or who he'd wronged in this one to have the people he cared about most suffer like this. First Val, now James. How selfish was that, then, thinking of how he was going to cope and wondering at that moment where he was going to find the strength.

There were still empty chairs at one end of the circle. "Guess the word is out that we're having Support Group," said the facilitator, moving empty chairs out of the way and encouraging everyone to move closer. There were nervous titters.

"So who wants to discuss their innermost thoughts with a group of strangers? Anyone? Anyone?"

More laughter.

"Your feelings—whatever they are—and believe me, they are going to change, day to day, minute to minute…"

_Bloody hell, here it comes, Robbie thought. My feelings in this don't matter. It's James I'm worried about, his feelings. His inability to bounce back when he's down. Keep focused on him, that's the ticket._

"—Make and strengthen connections with others who are in similar circumstances. Finding respite—"

He thought of what life might be like if the syndrome progressed. His gaze swept the room. All of these people had been watching their loved ones manage pain for months. Here he was, just now learning what James had been going through for years. For _years_. And without a single bloody word to him about it.

"—Support groups can be a wealth of information for places to find wigs, recipes for easy to swallow food—"

Robbie thought of the twisted limb in that PowerPoint slide. James might be wheelchair-bound someday, requiring constant care. Like the young man in James's first case as a DI. Of course James might be thinking of that, too. Might be thinking of the inordinate number of individuals associated with their past cases who were unable to move. Might be thinking of his aunt, too, who lost her faith. Have to remember to ask him about her.

Keep focused on James.

"—Drug trials. Why, just this morning, I heard that there's a new drug trial for patients with fibromyalgia and chronic regional pain syndrome—"

Chronic regional pain syndrome. Drug trial. _There's a drug trial._ The words speared Robbie's thoughts. Was that what James was talking to the doctor about? Robbie raised a tentative hand to interrupt, something he would never do if he was at a presentation at work. But this was James. "How do we find out more about that drug trial?"

The facilitator smiled. "See? And that's how a support group works. Who else is interested in learning more? Good. You'll need to see the study manager…"

++

"There's a drug trial." Robbie set his lunch tray on the table with a thump. James looked up, unmoved and distant. _He's still angry that I noticed him holding his arm. How can I not notice now that I know that he's in pain?_ Robbie rubbed his mouth. _Wish I knew what to say—hell, that would be the best reason for being in a support group—helping you to learn to say the right thing. All those times he leaned against the wall, all the times I saw him with his hands in his pockets, all the times—_

"I'm sorry." James took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, as if he was afraid that the force of his emotion might cause him to shatter. "I am so, so sorry for putting you through all this. First I poison you—"

 _Where the hell is this coming from?_ "My own damn fault, you mean, and you told me so at the time."

"I know, and I'm sorry I did that, too. Seeing you carried out on a stretcher because of my stupidity—"

"Aw, Christ, James. You're a right pain sometimes, but you're never stupid." Robbie shook his head. Why were they going through this now? And why the hell were they going through it here where everyone seemed to be looking at them? "Water under the bridge, man. Now, did you hear about the drug trial?"

"Please let me finish."

"Nothing to finish, man. Water under the bridge, like I said."

"You're not listening."

"I'm—I'm not listening? What I'm hearing is that you aren't listening to me. You don't need to bloody apologize—"

"—Yeah, I do, and I need you to listen to me now." James's voice was low, deadly calm, and there was anger and defiance and hurt in his eyes. "Listen. To. Me."

 _Right._ Robbie huffed. James was furious, he could tell, his face was pulled as if the gravity of the situation was a weight. It didn't match the anger that Robbie felt though, because James had apologized time and again. Forgive and forget, wasn't it, that's what friends do, and, to Robbie's mind, it was past time to move beyond the ritual and get to something productive that could fix this, not this bleeding need to grovel for expiation.

 _Oh._ A light flickered on, reminding him of the lights on top of the confessionals that he'd seen a time or two when he'd been in a Catholic church for a case. _He feels guilty. Bugger. He won't stop this bloody guilt trip till I forgive him._ Robbie tried to arrange his features into something calmer than he felt. He counted to ten. He folded his hands to keep them from gesturing at the futility of this, trying for an approximation of a friar. But it was important to James, this business of expressing fault, sorrow, and then receiving absolution. Fine, well, Robbie could do that. Get it over with so they could move on. The words 'drug trial' played at the edges of his consciousness.

This whole forgiveness business reminded him uncomfortably of an early case where James had spoken to a dying man about meeting his God, unshriven. A dying man. _Aw, Christ_.

James's eyes swept over Robbie's face and posture. He raised an eyebrow.

 _Well, go on. Let's get this in order, man. Can't sit here all day pretending to be your confessor._ But he would, if it would help James, and he knew it as well as he knew with a sudden crystal clarity that this scene—guilt and absolution, kiss and make up—would be enacted now and again between them in the coming years. He found it strangely comforting, oddly enough, because the next time this happened he'd know what to do and eventually it would become second nature, though he hoped it would never become routine. He wasn't sure what had changed between them, or when. But it had, subtly and inexorably, and he welcomed it.

He'd been looking at James with what he hoped was compassion. Now it was tempered with understanding.

James took a deep breath and began. "I could have told you about this, all of this, years ago, but I didn't. I—I don't know why. Maybe it was because I was afraid of losing my job or you—your friendship, that is—possibly both, I don't know. I can't change that, but I am profoundly sorry." James gave him a look as if he thought Robbie would speak, as if he dared Robbie to say a single word.

You could've told me, Robbie thought. _But you're right: early on, I would've insisted that you get treatment and I might've lost those years we spent working together because you would have been put behind a desk, most likely. You'd have been bored, left in a year or two._ He nodded, saying nothing. James's eyes were the deepest blue-green, he noticed, as they shared a moment of understanding.

James bowed his head. "I'm sorry, so sorry, that you landed in hospital because of me, because of my thoughtless, dangerous disregard for procedure. God, Robbie, I cannot tell you how I felt seeing you carried out to hospital, I was so bloody pissed off at myself for putting you in danger and then being so fucking glad you were alive that I" — He shook his head, apparently unable to believe he had behaved less than perfectly — "I wept. In the hall. Innocent hustled me into her office. I was a fucking mess. I knew I had to get help straight away, fix it once and for all. I'm sorry for all of it. So, so sorry." He seemed to deflate, the guilt and self-recrimination dissipating.

A minute passed. Then another. Robbie didn't know what to say. James's head was still bowed and Robbie had the uncomfortable impression that James was praying.

Which was fine, if he thought it would help. It might, hell, he didn't know. Keep focused on James, he reminded himself. But Robbie felt sparks from his impatience zapping through the air between them. Spots in the drug trial were limited, and if they didn't hurry upstairs to that study manager's office, they might lose out.

James glanced up at him, his expression hopeful, but with a shade of superciliousness behind it, too, as if he knew he was taking this far too seriously, but couldn't help himself. "Can you forgive me?"

_And there it was. Simple._

Robbie met his eyes. If he didn't handle this in just the right way, he knew it would crop up again, like a stubborn weed in a rose garden. He drew out the moment because James seemed to need that formality of absolution, even though Robbie's inclination was to say, ''Course I forgive you, daft sod,' and move on from there. "I forgive you," he said, looking into James's eyes, wondering why James seemed to need reassurance when of course he was forgiven. "Completely." He was expecting something other than resignation on James's face, though. "Let's forget it," he added, lamely.

The beginning of a smirk played at the corner of James's mouth. "You think I'm being stupid."

"I think you—Christ, James, of course I forgive you." He stopped himself from saying, 'daft sod.' "It's important to you. No idea why being so formal about an apology means something to you, but because it does, then it's important to me, too." He stopped himself again from saying, 'daft sod' and realized he needed to come up with something other than faintly derogatory pet names to call the man.

He didn't even want to think about _why_ he was resorting to pet names.

James seemed to settle back, the smirk fading. His brow was creased, as if irritated. He looked down, nodded to himself, looked away, as if the conversation wasn't finished. He seemed to be waiting for Robbie to say something perfect to tidy it all up.

Robbie raised his eyebrows, the sensation of déjà vu washing over him. His mam telling her sons to apologize to each other, though he couldn't remember a time in recent memory when two adult males said they were sorry to each other. Most went out of their way _not_ to apologize, he'd found, except where James was concerned. James was sorry for things he did, things he didn't do, things that he had absolutely no control over. On more than one occasion, James had apologized for the weather.

He rubbed his mouth, thinking back to conversations with Val, and later with Laura, where he'd apologize for missing Mark's game again or coming out of retirement without discussing it first—the transgressions in his life—and the reply was generally something along the lines of: "As long as you don't let it happen again, I'm sorry I had to being it up." Or, "That's okay." It was the pact that couples make, a conversational turn that friends make, lines always exchanged in pairs, like "I love you" and "I love you too." So it was always, "Oh, I'm sorry…"

"I'm sorry, too," he said, tentatively. James's head shot up, his eyes going wide. _That was it._ "For—" Robbie sighed, his heart was heavy, and he felt himself foundering, "—not seeing you were in pain." He rubbed his ear, not sure what else to say because how was this his fault? "I'm just sorry about all of it." He took a deep breath and watched the creases across James's forehead ease.

He felt oddly satisfied. It was as if he'd cleared the garden of weeds without throwing out his back.

"S'okay." A soft smile graced James's face. He radiated a warmth and calm as if something was settled. A debt paid, a cupboard cleaned. Something tended to and accomplished. It was a shared moment that would have made Robbie feel uncomfortable if it had been anyone other than James sitting across from him. _How does he manage to do that to me?_ Robbie shook his head slightly and huffed. "Daft sod."

James's smile grew wider. "Look at us. An actual conversation."

Robbie pulled out his mobile.

"Alerting the media?" James asked, sarky.

"Texting Laura. Letting her know we talked."

"Robbie."

He looked up. James beamed at him. "There's a drug trial."

"Aye, there's a drug trial."

+++

"Mindfulness?"

James raised his arms together watching the reflection in the mirror—one good arm going up, the other arm going not quite as high. He wore a long sleeved black shirt, had reveled in the small victory of slipping it on over his head that morning. "Forgiveness, acceptance, gratitude—positive emotions create permanent neurological changes in the brain to affect pain management."

Well, that was one way to deal with disappointment. Create a happy little frame around it. James wasn't eligible for the study, they said. Too long since the beginning of symptoms. The study manager had been kind, though, assuring them that it was a rigorous double blind study, so if the drug was proven effective in a subsequent clinical trial, it might be approved and available in only a year or two.

Robbie steadied the mirror that bisected James's body. In the carers’ class they had discussed the miracle cure cycle for chronic illness. How a study showing a tiny uptick in helping with a condition would be blown out of proportion by the media as a cure leading to unrealistic expectations for vulnerable people. Vitamin E to stop aging. Bee pollen for Alzheimer's. Pomegranate seeds for heart disease.

Drug trials.

But meditation and mindfulness had been studied since the 1970s for stress reduction. He'd used it often enough, though he hadn't called it that. Sitting in a corner of a pub staring into a pint for an hour letting the day slough off, wasn't that mindfulness?

After texting Laura that he and James had talked, she'd sent text after text until he called her, wanting details. He didn't know why she was disappointed to find that they'd only apologized to one another. It was a good start, he thought, since they usually didn't talk at all. James was opening up, he told her proudly.

He didn't mention that he was getting to know how James carried tension in his shoulders that needed to be massaged every night so that his arm would function. Didn't need to mention that he had become adept at avoiding the bulge at James's crotch when positioning the mirror on his body. Sure as hell didn't mention that they were sharing a bed. She would completely misunderstand that.

Robbie really didn't know what to make of that last bit himself. It didn't bother him, not at all. And part of him felt it should. It didn't appear to bother James either. In fact, a little part of him felt that James was actually enjoying it, this pretending to be partners of a different sort, though in truth, very little had changed between them.

Except all this touching at night and sharing a bed afterward.

"Studies in psychoneuroimmunology show positive PET scans." James raised his good arm. His gaze lifted from the reflection to meet Robbie's eyes. "The core Aquinian concept of the unity of brain, body and soul fits with the findings in nonlinear brain dynamics. It struck a chord, I suppose."

"Sounds like it would be up your street, quiet contemplation." Prayer, that's what it sounded like to Robbie, though why James would worship a God who would do this to anyone was beyond him. Still.

"Purposeful meditation to reduce stress. Stress reduction improves immune function at the cellular level." James turned his head on the pillow, his arm, shoulders, neck, and the downward tilt of his head creating a sweeping, elegant arc of black shirt and pale gold skin.

Robbie inhaled sharply, thinking of swans and broken wings. Or worse.

James turned his head, meeting Robbie's eyes. His voice was soft, and a faint, self-mocking smile played at the corner of his mouth. "'Instead of the cross, the Albatross. About my neck was hung'." James quoted. "I've managed on my own up until now. I'm sorry if I'm a burden now, but it's only for another week."

 _And for the rest of your life,_ Robbie said to himself. _And mine, if I'm honest, because I don't let go of people easily, especially when I'm needed._ "You're not a burden, man. Not here because you need me to be. I'm here because I _want_ to be with you, however you are. Just so we're clear."

James's bottom lip crumpled in doubt for an instant, and then he gave a resigned sigh. "The outcomes for a combination of mindfulness training and cognitive behavioral therapy are very encouraging. It's in the literature."

Robbie moved the mirror, thinking that what works for one person may not work for the next. But James was too clever by half. He had the sort of concentration that would make the Dalai Lama quail in his sandals, so if he believed that meditation would work, then it would.

He smiled to himself. "I was thinking that with your bloody single-mindedness, you could will yourself to have laser vision."

James acknowledged this by sitting up. "I'll work on it. Might be useful in the field. Though I was working on the power of flight."

"Well, let's reduce your stress, then." _And increase mine,_ he thought, as James slipped off his shirt to expose his upper arm, chest and shoulders. He rolled his shoulders and flexed a bit, clearly proud that he was able to get his arm over his head without cringing.

Despite what Tim had said, massage wasn't well-supported in medical studies except as a component for physio. It was a qualitative experience, not easily quantified. Thus, it was not a recommended choice, but it was accepted. Once ten sessions of physio were completed, NHS-supported massages would stop. Seeing a professional massage therapist once a week as recommended by CRPS experts ranged from thirty to sixty quid per visit. If James received a settlement, he'd have the means to pursue the level of care needed to manage the condition. Until then, Robbie was a masseur.The presenter in the carer class had made a point to encourage everyone to use the power of touch daily to connect with their loved ones.

 _Loved one. James had become a loved one,_ Robbie marveled. _When had that happened?_

James leaned back, cocked his head on the pillow, a faint smile on his lips, a light dancing merrily in his eyes. "Have to get well enough so that I can return the favor and reduce your stress."

 _Right, man, having your hands all over my body will definitely have an effect, but stress reduction is not it._ Robbie rolled his eyes, opened the massage oil, and tried not to think about the tremble in his hands and the hard thumping of his heart. "Warm enough in here for you?" _It is for me,_ he thought, feeling his neck flush as he rubbed his hands together to warm the oil in his palms.

"I was thinking of warm, heavy, flat stones along either side of your spine."

"Long as you don't do one of those Thai massages where you walk on my back." _Though I think I could bear up under your feet better than your hands and fingers. Christ. I'd come undone and what would happen then?_ Robbie carefully started on the superficial trapezius, his fingers smoothing the hard knots behind James's collarbone—clavicle, he corrected himself. It would be easier to do this if James rolled over, but then he would be tempted to spend far more time than was warranted, smoothing his hands over James's warm flesh, teasing the strain from his back and shoulders.

The rheumatologist had measured certain muscles in James's arm, getting a baseline, he'd told Robbie. One arm was 2cm shorter than the other; they weren't certain if he'd been born that way or if it was a result of CRPS over time. "Explains why I've started holding my guitar that way," James joked. But it wasn't amusing to Robbie, not at all. The evening that James had come back to the hotel with that bit of medical information, Robbie had massaged the man's back for an hour because it calmed them both down, that soothing skin-to skin contact.

_Loved one,_ Robbie thought, moving his hands over muscle and bone, thinking of how much it must have pained James to joke about holding his guitar and how much it had pained Robbie to hear it. How many times had he asked James to play for him? Not enough, he reckoned. He wondered if James would ever play again.

He worked slowly. "I'm being mindful," he said to James, who seemed to stare at him with this look of disbelief and awe, as if he couldn't image why Robbie was there, why Robbie was touching him. Daft sod, Robbie thought, adding more oil to work on the upper arm. 

"What do you concentrate on?" James asked.

Robbie stilled the motion of his hands, just for a moment, unerringly finding the spot where this man had taken a bullet intended for him. He shrugged and resumed his ministrations.

_Loved one,_ he thought. 

+++ 

The hotel room was too dark, too warm, and too quiet. Robbie shifted uncomfortably on the bed, unable to sleep. Thinking of the man stretched beside him, a hand's breadth away, not moving a muscle. He was trying not to think of the faint sheen of oil that had been on James's skin or the way his breath had hitched when Robbie had leaned across his chest, reaching past his head to adjust the pillow. He must have leaned over and reached past the man hundreds of times over the years—pointing to a computer screen, handing him evidence bags—but this time, the experience had been intimate, charged. 

James had quoted something, too, trying to inject some levity into the situation because it was funny, really. Two grown men tripping over themselves not to care or talk or feel. Robbie had wanted to joke about that full body massage, eighty quid he'd offered James, before James had fled to Fiona. But he couldn't, because the specter of a young woman in a wheelchair at the center of that case seemed uncomfortably close to what was happening—what could happen—someday to James.

It had been a sobering thought. James saw it, too, and then he shut down, too, the silly bubbly mood going flat and stale like the air in the room.

The carer's course had covered some elements of nursing: changing an occupied bed, for example, feeding, incontinence, and he wondered again how he could help keep this thing at bay so that he could preserve the dignity of the man. And his own. Because he wanted to be with him. He knew, logically, that he could drive James back to Oxford and James would get a settlement and some carer would be there for him if he needed.

But the carer wouldn't be Robbie. And so, of course, that wouldn't be right.

"Please stop thinking so loudly." James whispered in the darkness.

"How do you know I'm awake?"

"Aside from the fact that you answered? You're not snoring."

"It's more of a snuffle."

"No, it's not. Roll onto your side."

"Just don't know what to do." Robbie sighed, his heart heavy. He tuned in to what James was saying. "Doesn't help the snoring."

"Roll onto your side."

"Sorry." Robbie rolled onto his side. He hadn't been asleep, he knew he wasn't snoring. He was just too worried to sleep. "There. Happy?"

"My arm aches."

Robbie propped himself up. "Think it would help if I rubbed it?"

"No, I think this will work." James curled up behind him, lifting Robbie's arm so that he could fit his affected arm beneath it. The flat of James's hand was against his chest. "Just let your arm rest against mine," James breathed, his cheek pressed against Robbie's temple, the tip of his nose brushing against Robbie's earlobe as he pecked a tiny, deliberate kiss against Robbie's neck. "You worry too much."

Robbie's head was reeling. He stiffened—horrified that he might feel something, well, that he might be nudged in a way he wasn't prepared to deal with, at least not yet—or maybe ever—but it was just James, snuggled against his back. He let his arm rest easily against the injured arm. "Is—is this okay?" He meant his arm on James's, the snuggling, the closeness, the bloody kiss on his neck—all of it. The way they fit together. Robbie hadn't been cuddled like this since he was a lad. Felt bloody fantastic, feeling someone strong holding him, smelling that massage oil, inhaling deeply and wanting to melt into the man. What did this mean? Would they be able to talk about it in the morning? What do—

"You're thinking again. Go to sleep." James nuzzled against his shoulder.

"Supposed to think. I'm the brains, remember?"

James huffed a laugh and sighed, shifting his other arm beneath Robbie's pillow.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to Wendymr, for Brit-pick and beta. :-) Thanks to Laurence Fox, Kevin Whately, and the cast of _Lewis_ for providing inspiration for the ending. Any errors that remain are mine-sorry.

"Please tell me we're not going to see Stan the fossilized t. Rex," Robbie whispered to Lyn as they walked back to the car park from another evening out. "I've seen that bloody dinosaur every visit for the last three years." He deftly sidestepped a group of young adults in U of Manchester gear clubbing on a Friday night.

Lyn looked at the group longingly as they passed. "Then you'll be thrilled to know that Jack is now interested in mummies."

"Wish I'd known," James said. He shoved his hands into his pockets and bounced on his toes, smiling. "There was a recent exhibition at the Ashmolean with information about Carter's discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamen."

"Jack's interested in how mummies are made, James. The part where they pull the brains from the nostrils—that sort of thing."

"Lovely." Robbie made a face. "James said he hasn't been to the John Rylands in years. Thought we might visit the library, see that bit of Biblical parchment."

Jack, Lyn, and Tim stared at him.

As did James. "Perhaps we can see it on our own, Robbie. I know you're not that keen on it either. Glad to hear that Jack's wrapped up in mummies, though."

Jack giggled.

"I dunno, James." Robbie said, feigning doubt. "Might be too gruesome for him, all those guts, and ripping the heart out of a corpse—"

"They do put the heart back in." James said, his eyes gleaming. He deepened his voice. "Before they lower the sarcophagus into the tomb."

Tim picked up Jack. "And the heart is still beating, beating, beating…"

Jack laughed. "And…and all the blood is sucked out with a straw. And then they…" Jack looked from his dad to James. "How does it go again?"

James gestured to Tim, who shrugged. And then James sighed. "Mummification 101. Jack. Why did the Egyptians mummify their dead?"

Robbie and Lyn slowed, watching the two men walk on either side of the boy. Robbie couldn't hear what was being said, but James was talking animatedly, Tim was making horrible faces, and Jack was alternating between laughter and horrified fascination.

"Maybe before we leave next week we can mind Jack so that you and Tim can have an evening out," Robbie said, understanding how just an evening without the kids can bring a couple together again. He and Val had been lucky since Val's mum had been about, but there was no one here for them. No wonder he was getting a bit of pressure to retire to Manchester.

"Nice that Tim and Jack have found a kindred soul in James," said Lyn with a tolerant smile. "How's the program?"

"Five days to go. He's bored, though. Says he knows it all. Had a run-in, too, with one of the staff about their statistical methodology. Went on and on. Innocent says he has to stick with it, though, so he manages. Pretends to take notes. And it's the only way he'll be able to get his medication." Robbie rubbed his earlobe. "Thing is, he's not making a lot of progress with his exercises. His range of movement is limited. The spinal didn't do much, so they've upped his dose of oxy. Pops them like sweets. So he seems happier. Happier than I've seen him in—I dunno how long."

He didn't think she needed to hear what he thought was really making James happier. After that first night of being curled around each other, they had slept in, arriving at their classes mid-morning. At the end of the day, by unspoken agreement, they'd brought takeaway back to the room, finished with the mirror and massage in record time before settling in their pyjamas to watch telly curled around each other in bed.

Nothing whatsoever sexual about it. Just sleeping.

Best sleep Robbie had had since he accidentally took James's pills, though he didn't tell him that.

"Dad, I hope you haven't said anything about how many painkillers James takes. It's his pain to treat, not yours." Her voice was gentle.

"'Course I haven't said anything," Robbie protested. Wondered plenty, though, because he was slipping into this complacency that wasn’t James. It was as if when that spinal didn't work, he threw in the towel. "Thing is, Lyn, if he's in less pain but the pills are affecting him in other ways—"

"You need to talk with his doctor, then." Her voice seemed chilly.

"His memory isn't as sharp as it was—used to have a quote for every occasion." Robbie put his hands in his pockets. "Not anymore. I think it's because they upped his gabapentin."

"Which is why the two of you need to talk with his doctor, Dad, and not me." Lyn made an exasperated noise. "Confidentiality." She gestured to the three figures joking around in front of them. James leaned over to say something to Jack that made the boy double over laughing in Tim's arms. "You've said that James isn't close to his own family. He seems to like being a part of ours."

Robbie sighed wearily. "I've said it before, can't move to Manchester, pet. My life is in Oxford. James has a job in Oxford…"

"And your life is with James, I know."

Robbie's eyebrows shot up. "Didn't say that!"

"Dad, it's fine, we understand how it is. Hard enough getting used to a new relationship, a chronic illness, a new family dynamic—"

"Pet—"

"No, really! James seems to be doing so much better and that's all down to you. That's why he's happier, I'm sure of it. You two just needed a break from policing. I wish there was better news on his condition, though. Still, you're both in it for the long haul and it's good for you to have someone to look after you, too. It's obvious that you two are very much in love with each other." She took his arm and gave him a hug as they walked. "We're very happy for you both."

"It's not like that, though. He's—that is, pet, he and I are partners." Robbie stopped himself, wanting to be honest with her. Hell, wanting to be honest with himself because he didn't know what to call that first night sleeping with James—and only sleeping, mind, because the rest of it was just not on, not yet—they had agreed on that.

Except that they hadn't. Because they weren't talking about this new facet of their relationship, not yet. _Their relationship._ He looked away, feeling heat on his neck. They were still trying it out, he reckoned, that's why it hadn't come up. And why did they need to talk if it was working, for chrissake. If nothing else—and so far, there was nothing else—they were both sleeping soundly, and it didn't matter what you called it.

Though, if he was honest with himself, and with her, and with James, he was in a relationship. With a loved one.

It only added insult to injury when James had casually teased him. "At least we won't have to tell Lyn we're sleeping together. She already knows."

He had his little girl to thank for putting James in his bed. It was enough to give him a headache. "We were partners when we arrived."

"Well, I wanted to ask, you know, but I was afraid that you'd tell me you two got married without us being there."

"No-o-o-o." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Not married."

"It's okay, Dad. Not like I can claim the high moral ground here."

"Though you might consider it, for Jack's sake."

"We've been over this. So, are you civil partners," she said, grinning at him, "or should I ask James if the two of you are living in sin?"

"No, dammit, Lyn. We're not, we haven't, and—" He rubbed the back of his neck and dropped his hand.

"Wait." Lyn stopped, folded her arms, and watched as James, Tim, and Jack turned a corner up ahead so that they were out of sight. She rounded on her father. "You and James are partners at work."

She moistened her bottom lip and then chewed on it thoughtfully, arms still folded. She stared at the pavement. "I had it all wrong from the beginning, didn't I. You and James aren't…" She flapped her hand ineffectually. "Are you?"

"No, pet. We're not. Honest mistake."

"But Dad, you shared a bed in our house." Her voice dropped to an embarrassed hiss. "How come you let us think—" Her eyes got wide and she covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh. My. God." She stared at him for a full minute, watching him. "We weren't wrong at all! You love him, don't you? It's—well, Dad, he loves you, too, it's obvious. I mean, we wouldn't have thrown the two of you in the same bed if he hadn't led us to believe that it was okay."

"What did he say, do you remember?"

She squinted as she looked toward the sky, as if she was trying to recall the precise language used. "Oh, right, he said: 'I'm desperately afraid to tell your father how I feel because he might feel the same way and if this was discovered, we might be forced to live happily ever after.'"

He supposed he deserved a bit of that, true, but not from his daughter and not about James. He frowned at her and was gratified to see her embarrassed, as she should be. Not something a father and daughter should be talking about anyway. But he didn't want anything to change, not now. He didn't want James to be embarrassed; hell, he didn't want Lyn to feel awkward, either. He liked the way things were. And he liked—really liked—being with James. They'd always been close at work, but he liked sharing his evenings with him. Liked massaging his arm and helping with his bloody exercises and reading in bed together.

He liked watching him sleep. Liked waking up beside him in the morning. And if that was all they ever had together, that would be plenty.

Lyn tugged on his arm. "Dad." She said his name as if she had been trying to get his attention. "Nothing has to change here. Nothing at all. I won't say anything to him. To anyone. No one would believe me anyway."

Robbie pursed his lips. "No final admonitions to tell him how I feel? You think I should declare my undying love?"

"I think you should let your heart guide you." She kissed him on the cheek.

They were turning the corner. Robbie grinned, despite himself. James, Jack, and Tim were hunched around James's mobile, intently watching something that Robbie guessed wasn't football.

"Grandpa! Guess what? When I get home, Uncle James is going to wrap me like a mummy using toilet paper!"

Tim put his arm around Lyn. "I drew the line at disemboweling. Too messy."

Lyn steered Tim and Jack ahead, walking ahead to give Robbie and James space.

"Could wrap you, too, Robbie, if you like." James smirked. His smirk softened almost immediately to something warm and fond. His hands were in his pockets as he walked.

It was too much. Robbie pressed his hand between James's shoulder blades, thinking that he'd slide his arm around James's shoulders.

James's eyes widened. Caught mid-step, he shuddered, and with a sudden jerk, James pulled his arm back to use his hand to rub that spot where the bullet had entered years ago. His forehead crumpled in pain. "Fuck. I—you go ahead, Robbie." He gripped his upper arm hard with his other hand, his fingers going white, his eyes scrunched shut.

It was as if he'd been shot all over again, though Robbie remembered he hadn't displayed much pain then. This, though, seemed intense. He took out his mobile. "Lyn?" She turned, and started walking back, quickly. "Yeah, we're still behind you. Think you could run us back to the hotel?"

James was panting rapidly and shallowly. The hand reaching into his pocket was shaking. He managed to hand the small pillbox to Robbie, who took out two. Seeing that James's hand was still shaking, he put the pill up to James's mouth.

"No," said James.

"Dammit, James, just open your mouth and take the bloody pill."

Lyn came running up. She glanced at them both, taking in the situation, and pursed her lips. "James. Take the fucking pills. Or the dose can be administered rectally and I'm absolutely certain that you don't want to go that route."

James gave her a scathing look, resumed the death grip on his arm, and opened his mouth, swallowing the pills Robbie put on his tongue before stalking off alone in the direction of the car park.

Robbie rubbed his mouth and then sighed before turning to his daughter, who was standing with her hand on her hip looking remarkably like Val at that moment, right down to the fire in her eyes.

"Dad—"

"It's—it'll be fine. I'll get him sorted." He knew it wouldn't be, though, because James would be upset that he had ruined the outing. Every pain receptor James had must have fired off to warrant that reaction. Robbie pursed his lips. Was it putting his hand between James's shoulder blades that did it? He used to do that all the time, and there was a harrowing thought: what if he'd been causing a reaction like that all along and he never knew?

"Give the lads a hug for me and tell them we'll do something later in the week." He gave her a one-armed hug and started after James. No telling what might happen to him in that state, could find him flat on the pavement.

He picked up his pace, almost trotting around the corner, to find James leaning against a wall, his face hard and stoic and obviously in so much pain Robbie wanted to weep. James met Robbie's eyes and everything—the unyielding stubbornness of the man, his inflexibility—seemed to give under the strain as they gazed at one another.

"Let's get you home, James."

++++

It took every ounce of willpower Robbie had to remain calm while James spun out of control due to the pain, and he was bloody grateful he'd half-paid attention at the lecture on emotional resilience and maintaining equilibrium for the carer. If this happened to everyone, if this was common to every pain management patient, why didn't they have something to fix what the carer went through?

He felt guilty, too, and ashamed, because he wasn't the one in agony and yet there he was, nearly shouting at James—at James!—who held his fucking arm while he explained, in a deadly calm voice, with tears streaming down his face, how the pain and his inability to master it was slowly driving him insane.

James wielded his pain like a bloody weapon, unthinkingly flinging it out there while he described various ways he'd like to amputate his arm. His voice started out calm and became increasingly sarcastic, fatal, the volume rising as he became more agitated. "Maybe I should gnaw off my arm at the shoulder."

Robbie huffed a laugh because the way James was behaving at that moment he could see it, clear as day, James gnawing at his shoulder like a bloody beaver.

James had stared at him, mouth slightly open in disbelief. "You think this is funny?"

"I think you need to lie down, let the pills do their job."

"I don't want the pills to lay me flat! I don't want to be a drooling vegetable having to be spoon fed on a—"

"I don't either and that's why you're getting on the bed now. I'm getting the oil and I'm going to rub your bloody arm until it feels better." He had just about enough of this. "Or do we pour out for the pity party? Tear-water tea and fairy cakes?"

"Don't you get it? All that I am, all that I've ever been, is gone! I'm this close to losing my fucking mind, Robbie. And I can't even love you."

The words sent Robbie reeling. "What? What are you on about?"

"I can't give you what you want. What you had with Laura. I can't. Not at all. Haven't you noticed? I keep hoping that when I'm sleeping next to you, I'll be able to—and nothing. I can hold you, but if you touch me, I shiver and it doesn't stop. And—" James sniffed, looked to the ceiling and blew out a huge whoosh of air. "I want to and I can't. So I can't even let you touch me. All you did was touch me on the fucking back. Felt like fire. And I want so m-much—" He gulped back a sob.

Robbie stood in front of him, his hands hovering inches from James's shoulder, uncertain.

"I don't know what to do," Robbie said, helplessly. He reached for something to say, anything, from that damn carer program. He couldn't wrap his head around James wanting more than a cuddle. James wanting—him? Not that it hadn't occurred to Robbie, but it was a little shocking, all the same. Their 'unspoken desire' not only spoken out loud but pulled out for a bloody discussion like this. Feelings were one thing, sex was another. He wanted to set it—this whole business of sharing a bed and possibly, improbably, _more,_ aside until they could talk about it calmly and rationally. He'd be happy to let James touch _him_ —he was having a hard time _not_ thinking about it—but how could he resist touching James in return? His hands were in the air because he didn't know what to do with them. "Tell me what you need," he said, hating the way his voice sounded patronizing. He strengthened it. "I just—just tell me what you need."

"I have what I _need._ " James said, biting out each word with thin-lipped precision. His face was an angry red, eyes glittering with unshed tears. "I don't have what I _want._ I can't have—I can't be who I was, I can't be what I want to be. I. Can't. Do. It." He turned away and slumped into the chair at the desk. He covered his face with his hands. "I want to, God I want to. Nothing works. Higher brain functions go first, but when the autonomic nervous system goes—I've read that that's it." He rubbed his face, drawing the motion out with his hands as if he were smoothing away distress before dropping them into his lap. "I can't think, Robbie. If there's a poem, or words of wisdom, or a bloody random fact, I can't even fucking think of it anymore, and I used to be able to do that before the medication. Used to be able to, well, never mind. I can't do that anymore either. Never thought I'd miss it until now."

Robbie rubbed his earlobe, bewildered and distressed, and dropped his hands. He had no idea what to say. He was of an age, though, where he could understand how horrible it was to reach for a thought and to find nothing there. Didn't happen often, but it was disconcerting, to say the least. He couldn't imagine what it must be like for James, who was used to warehousing facts, ideas, random bits and pieces of language. How would it feel for a man with a mind like that to have his thoughts inexorably stripped away.

No wonder he felt as if he was going insane.

And, yet, here he was worried about his ability to perform in _bed?_ 'Course that was weirdly flattering—that he'd _want_ to with Robbie. But it wasn't all that important to Robbie, not really, and he'd always assumed that James was the same way. Never saw him as really needing sex. So why…

Autonomic nervous system. Night-time erections gone. First signs that other systems might be getting ready to fail. Voluntary control over muscles. Dystonia. Spasticity. The list of co-morbid conditions spun out in his head and he felt a little sick.

James was behaving this way to deliberately set out obstacles to push him away.

James was giving up.

He knew that Robbie would be devastated to see the condition get worse. He _knew._

Well, Robbie wasn't going to let him, that's all there was to it. He wasn't going to let it get to him, either, wasn't going to let the man's pain push him over into rage, wasn't going to let this bloody thing get the better of either of them. Not when James needed him. Wanted him. And somehow, some way, he was going to fix this.

"Not going anywhere." Robbie stood behind James and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. He waited for James to show some sign of pain, and when there was none, he put his arms around the seated man, holding him tight, avoiding his arm, but pressing as much of himself as he could as close as he could. James wearily leaned his head against Robbie's belly.

"I'm losing my mind." James glanced up at Robbie, biting his bottom lip before looking away. "Lost my heart a long time ago."

Robbie thought of a much younger man that he'd carried out of the fire, thought of a sweet smile on a pale face beaming at him from a hospital bed and realized he'd lost his heart years before, too. "Me too, daft sod, me too."

Whereupon James began to cry. Hard. As if he'd lost everything.

He held on while James's shoulders shook as he wept, and he fought the urge to weep as well. He'd cried enough the day after he saw what the illness could do if it wasn't managed. Cried for James, cried for himself. Felt cried out, actually. Part of the grieving process, they said in the carer class. Weeping for the life you might have had. Well.

Robbie stared at the wall opposite trying not to think of the man now sobbing softly. He wondered why people put watercolors of the seaside up in hotel rooms. Is it supposed to be calming, looking at powerful waves that can tear apart a ship? And who paints these masterpieces anyway? Reckon it's someone who's never been to the ruddy shore. Someone painting from a postcard their aunt sent from Dorset twenty years before.

He held James until the room was silent.

James's eyes, which were the color of the Caribbean Sea, were red-rimmed and anguished. He looked at Robbie and snuffled.

Robbie pressed his hand against James's cheek, holding the man's head against his belly for a moment, just another minute, he promised himself, wanting nothing more than to wrap the daft sod up in his arms and hold him properly. He sighed, worn out, but he couldn't let go, not yet.

James burrowed into his belly a bit. "Sorry, I'm so, so sorry." The words were soft, not slurred, but lazy.

"I'm sorry, too," Robbie replied. He hoped that his apologies wouldn't become an automatic response to something said so often that it loses its meaning. "I shouldn't have raised my voice." He moistened his lips. "I don't know all of what it's like. But I do know what it is to forget. And I know what it's like, James, to want and not be able to do, yeah? We'll work it out when we're calmer."

"I'm changing into someone I don't know. Someone I don't even like, forcing people to help—"

"No one is holding a gun to my head, man. I'm here for the duration."

"Because you think I need you, that's the only reason. I took a bullet that you feel was meant for you and now you feel that I'm your responsibility."

There was enough truth in what James said to clutch at Robbie's throat. He did feel guilty, yes, but he knew it wasn't about the bullet, because he'd been over and over it at the time, chewing on that bit of gristle, trying to get it down.

He'd gone over the case, their conversation. He'd been right to remove James, he knew that. He'd reviewed their positions relative to one another at the time of the shooting. James was the one Paul had summoned to the summer house on the estate that night, and Robbie had gone instead. Paul had meant to shoot James. And he had. But only because James had leapt in front of Robbie. Nothing to do about it now, and all that happened afterwards was procedure, by the book. He didn't feel guilty about anything that happened that night.

No, he felt guilty for the one thing, the one time, the day prior, where he had skirted the law. He'd taken the papers off Innocent's desk that removed James from the case and it’s not that he took the papers away; it’s that he didn’t tell James he did it. James had been shot on duty. If he had had proper, intensive treatment at the time through all of the resources of Oxford Police, he might not be in agony now.

Robbie knew he couldn't equate any of the guilt he felt with the pain that James felt. Though the searing sensation James described, seemed an awful lot like what was going on in Robbie's stomach most of the time these days now that he knew how James had suffered.

"If our places were reversed, I'd have taken that bullet. And if our places were reversed, man, I know you'd be at my side here now. And I'd be the one clutching my bloody arm, and you'd be telling me to sit the fuck down and listen." Robbie looked at James, who was sitting, rigid now.

"You think I need you."

"No, I know you don't," Robbie said pointedly. "You can get a carer. I'm here with you because I want to be here. With you. I want to be with you. You. James. Hathaway. Doesn't matter if you're able or not, a genius or not, doesn't matter if you're in a wheelchair, doesn't matter if you have to be fed through a tube—and yeah, don't look shocked, man, of course I've thought about it, all of it."

"Well, I have too, and I don't want you to have to go through that on my account."

"You'd better get over it, then, because unless you hold a gun to my head and pull the trigger, I'm not leaving. I want to be with you." Robbie pursed his lips in disgust. "Christ, I thought we talked about this."

James stood up and went to the night table for a tissue. He blew his nose and sat wearily on the bed. "We don't talk." He huffed a sigh and rubbed his arm. "Thank God for oxycontin."

"I don't understand why you're afraid of taking it."

James took a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly. "Because I'm still in pain, but I'm so high I don't care. If I don't care, I'm doomed."

The pills dulled his mind even more than the gabapentin, he said, so he'd skipped a dose, then two, as he enjoyed answering Jack's questions about mummies and enjoyed Tim's exclamations as James showed off for the two of them, pulling obscure facts from that great brain of his.

"If I take enough medication to control the pain, I'm happy, but I feel stupid." James stared at his hands resting on his knees. The hand of the affected arm was slightly darker than the other. "It's an uncomfortable feeling, stupidity. Indifference. Being ordinary. I—I've always stuck out, never fit in." He moistened his lips. "No surprise there. But," he said in a quiet voice, "as much as I thought I wanted to be like everyone else, I did what I could to be unique. If I was going to stand out because of my height, I was going to stand out for—" He gave Robbie a self-deprecating smile. "—my intellectual prowess."

"And for being an athlete, I know. Rowing." Robbie placed his hand, palm up, on his thigh, waiting to see if James would take it. He felt a surge of pleasure when James did.

They sat hand in hand, tethered to one another. They'd been through too much together over the years and they'd get through this, too, as partners do. Robbie cast his mind again over the cases they'd handled. He wasn't one to ruminate and he wondered why he was dwelling on things in the past. Was it because he couldn't bear to look at the future? But he kept thinking of things that were filed away in evidence boxes. He had a hunch, an itch at the back of his mind, there was something to all of his mental meanderings. As if he'd made an incident board in his head and he was working it over and over again. Evidence boxes and whiteboards. And photos.

James had assembled a timeline in photos for the Chloe Brooks case. He remembered that morning, the office a shambles of cigarette rubbish because James was trying to quit, James bopping around listening to classical music through his ear buds and taping photos to the whiteboard. James telling him that he'd spent the night working on the Chloe Brooks case because Robbie had thought something wasn't right.

He told Robbie on that first night at Lyn's that he'd needed a distraction. He wasn't on any medication then for pain. He said he was trying to quit smoking and to help him quit, he was—

"Rowing." Robbie squeezed James's hand. "Rowing." He stood up, scanning the hotel room. "Where's your laptop? There was an article."

"About rowing? See, this is what I mean, Robbie. I should be ahead of you on—"

Robbie pulled a face. "I've never been as academically clever as you, yeah, but I'm a canny man and I know I read something in the damn literature about exercise. Log in and I'll look."

James got up, resignation on his face. He logged in and went back to sit on the bed. "For all the good it will do."

"Complementary treatments, James." Robbie scanned the links that came up. "Massage, desensitization…"

"You can rub fuzzy fabric and sandpaper over my arm any time you like." James lay back on the bed. "I'm useless now."

"It was in an article about mirror therapy."

"Ramachandran. He's the author. I remember thinking it was a melodic name. Ramachandran. Do you know how long it's been since I played my guitar?"

Robbie shook his head. James was flying. "Did you take more pills?"

"Nope. I've always wanted to go to India." James sat up. "Did you find it?"

"I know I saw it."

James came over and leaned over Robbie. "Let me."

"You're out of it." Higher than a kite, Robbie wanted to add, but he relinquished his spot at the desk.

James smirked and wiggled his fingers, the fingers of one hand moving more easily than the other. He stared at his hands, as if absorbing this information through a drug-induced fog. He sobered quickly. "What, specifically, do you remember from the article you read?"

"Exercise after limb injuries, it's part of long term rehab. For leg injuries, walking; for arm injuries—"

"—Rowing. Found it." James scrolled through the article quickly and then went back to the beginning, reading carefully. Slowly.

Robbie read over his shoulder, his hand on the back of the chair. Exercise. Early physio and continued exercise of the affected limb could manage chronic regional pain syndrome. In some cases, particularly in children, the pain would go away for years, though they remained at increased risk for the rest of their lives. Exercise. Mirror therapy. Massage. Desensitization. Physio. Moving the limb.

The journal article stated baldly that there was no cure, only symptom management.

But the pain could be managed through vigilance and an active lifestyle.

"You've had this pain for years, James. What were you doing this time to make it flare up?"

James looked irritated. "If I knew that, I wouldn't be here. I keep a fucking chart of everything I eat, when I sleep, whether it was hot or cold…"

"Stress. Is there a box on your bloody chart for that?"

"Yes. And yes, I've been under stress, you know that."

"What have you been doing about it?"

"Going through paperwork, mostly. Writing up past due reports." He shook his head. "Helping Lizzie."

"Sitting at a desk using a computer."

James looked up.

"Think about it, man. You said you need medication _after_ we finish a case. Because when we're working a case, we're in motion. We're all over Oxford. And the one time you were able to function without pills was during the Chloe Brooks case."

"I was rowing every morning." James smiled, as the realization dawned. He met Robbie's eyes. "The pain was manageable, I remember now. I was exercising like a fiend to get past the nicotine withdrawal."

"You were rowing." Robbie's hand dropped to James's shoulder on the unaffected side, and rested there.

"It can't be that simple."

"I'm sure it's not. But it's another thing to try. Might help." Robbie squatted beside the chair, so that he could look into James's eyes. "Daft sod." He shook his head slightly, dropping his gaze to the floor and thinking again that he really needed to come up with something affectionate to call the man. He felt James's fingers beneath his chin, tilting up his head.

James's eyes searched his face, as if he was looking for a lie, a tell. As if he was weighing the evidence, making a judgement. Robbie watched the color in James's eyes deepen as he came to a decision. His gaze flickered to Robbie's mouth and then to Robbie's eyes and then back to Robbie's mouth.

_He's going to kiss me._

Robbie reached for James's neck and pulled him into the kiss.

James had come so far on his own, it was only fair to meet him halfway.

+++

**Six Months Later**

"The airport taxi will be here in twenty minutes," Robbie said, unzipping his bag to add the plastic bag of power adapters they'd nearly left behind. Different plugs in Australia.

"We're looking for Monty, Grandpa." Jack called from the bedroom. "He's under the bed and won't come out. How am I supposed to feed him if he won't come out? He'll starve while you're gone."

Lyn got up from the couch. "Leave Monty alone, Jackie."

"Mom! Jackie is a girl at school."

James came from the bedroom and surveyed the lounge with his hands on his hips. "Oh, good, you remembered the adapters."

"I'm wondering what else we're missing." Robbie smiled slightly. He'd spent years relying on James's phenomenal memory at work. Not having a ruddy brain trust at their fingertips was taking some getting used to, for both of them.

But it was worth it, to his mind. They were putting in part-time hours at the nick, which was one of the conditions that James had insisted on with the settlement. They did the community service unit training for new officers, showing them how to get along with Oxford gown and town.

James was on a training regime of daily workouts, rowing, desensitization, massage, meditation, and enough medication to warrant their own small bag for the holiday. He was doing well, though, so they were going to visit Mark. James wasn't cured, never would be, but he was in good shape. Hell, they were both in good shape. Amazing shape. Robbie felt better than he had in years because he was working out with James. The two of them had graduated from paddling Robbie's canoe to rowing a double scull.

And the level of fitness was serving them well in other areas, too. Robbie hid a smile as he thought of how they had prepared for the long flight.

James saw the look and smirked. "Stop it, you." He went into the kitchen where Tim was rummaging for utensils and plates.

Tim, Lyn, and Jack would be minding the flat and the cat for ten days to see the sights in and around Oxford. They'd planned a trip to London for an overnight, too, to see the Tower and the British Museum, since Jack was still obsessed with mummies. For the remaining two weeks Monty's care was divided between Laura, a cat minder, and a bloke from James's band.

Because James was playing the guitar again, Not as well as he once did, true, but he did play with the band.

 _Right, that's what we forgot._ Robbie picked up James's guitar from its stand, thinking he'd better put it in the wardrobe so Jack wouldn't be tempted to mess with it. "James," he called into the kitchen, "where's your guitar case?"

Tim set the plates he was carrying out on the table. "It's on the bed. James was showing me the autographs. Impressive."

"I helped Dad find that guitar when it was stolen," Lyn said, proudly.

"For which I am forever in your debt." James took her by the shoulders and kissed her cheek. "Please don't sell it while we're gone," he joked.

Robbie went to James's side and put his arm firmly around his waist. They'd discovered that heavy hands worked better for touching and he felt the top of his ears go red, thinking about it.

James leaned close, and whispered in his ear, "Mile high club?"

Robbie strangled back a laugh and pushed the guitar at James.

"You know, you didn't play for us when you were up at Manchester," said Lyn. "I've never heard you play, James."

"Aw, pet, we've—" Robbie stopped and looked at James, who seemed so delighted to be asked. So delighted to be able to play. And suddenly Robbie couldn't speak, tears were in his eyes and he thought—mindfully—of how profoundly blessed he was to have his family around him, and how grateful he felt that James would be meeting his son.

James strummed a chord or two. "I've just the song." He smiled, apologetic. "I don't remember the beginning."

And Robbie's heart broke, just a little, as James searched for the words that once would have leapt so readily to mind.

"So kiss me," Robbie began, because at that moment all he could think of were kisses.

And James began to play, singing:

"So kiss me and smile for me  
Tell me that you'll wait for me  
Hold me like you'll never let me go  
'Cause I'm leavin' on a jet plane  
Don't know when I'll be back again  
Oh babe, I hate to go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Note: In all likelihood, James will be fine. Eventually, he'll get used to the medication, the physio, the exercise, the therapy. The mindfulness. He'll manage because Robbie loves him. And rowing will help, too._
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> **Lewis Summer Challenge 2015 Prompts:**  
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> **Loves_Books** asked for Hardcore H/C, with life-changing consequences - James is paralysed/loses a leg/is blinded in one eye, or something equally devastating. Heaps of angst, obviously, but would prefer a happy-ish ending, with James starting to cope, or managing to move on, with Robbie's help.
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> **b37d45** wanted: I'd like to see something like this as well (we will say nothing of all the highly angsty head canons I have). Or something similar, where James has a long standing medical condition like epilepsy or something, that he has so far hidden or kept under control. Until one day it isn't hidden or under control any more. Can he still do his job? How does he cope? Worried and paternal Lewis would be nice.
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> **CRPS-Chronic Regional Pain Syndrome** is rare neurological disorder. At the Pain Management Program at the Salford Royal in Manchester, a number of researchers are working on experimental treatments. Though the patient goals are similar, the actual content of the program and treatment described in the story is patterned after CRPS treatment and pain management programs in the US. My apologies if there are errors. Some websites of interest:
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> UK NHS Guidelines for Chronic Regional Pain Syndrome Treatment:
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> https://www.rcplondon.ac.uk/sites/default/files/documents/complex-regional-pain-full-guideline.pdf
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> Patient Information (including photo of mirror therapy):
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> http://www.nhs.uk/Conditions/Complex-Regional-Pain-Syndrome/Pages/Treatment.aspx
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> US Fact Sheet on CRPS including medication research (ketamine)
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> http://www.ninds.nih.gov/disorders/reflex_sympathetic_dystrop/detail_reflex_sympathetic_dystrophy.htm


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